07 ,
ANTHONY, EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.
THE LIFE, UNPUBLISHED LETTERS,
PHILOSOPHICAL REGIMEN
OF
ANTHONY, EARL OF SHAFTESBURY
AUTHOR OF THE "CHARACTERISTICS
EDITED BY
BENJAMIN RAND, PH.D.
Harvard University
LONDON
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO. LIM.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
iqoo.
PREFATORY INTRODUCTION,
The present volume consists of a sketch of the life, of the
unpublished letters, and of the philosophical regimen of that
most fascinating English moralist, the third Earl of Shaftesbury.
The entire material for the work, apart from the letters
addressed to Locke, has been obtained from the Shaftesbury
Papers, which are now deposited in the Record Office in
London. Mr. Thomas Fowler in his "Shaftesbury and
Hutcheson1" expressed the belief that these papers would well
repay a more careful investigation than he was able to give
them in the preparation of his book. Such research has been
made and the results of it appear in the present work. The
perusal of it will not only fully confirm the favourable forecast
as to the probable worth of the manuscripts for the life of
Shaftesbury, but will also reveal, I believe, that they contained
from his pen one of the most remarkable unpublished contri
butions of modern times in the domain of philosophic thought.
The sketch of the life of the third Earl, which forms the
first division of this book, was written by his son, the fourth
Earl of Shaftesbury. Its contents have been essentially
printed by Thomas Birch in the General Dictionary (1734 — 41)
of Bayle, without any due acknowledgment of their source,
although apparently by permission (British Museum, Birch
MSS., No. 4318). But this is the first time for the Life to be
published under the name of its real author, and with the
exception of a necessary change in the order of paragraphs to
conform with known events, almost precisely as it exists in the
original manuscript. Various clauses and paragraphs of
interest have also been inserted as footnotes, which have been
taken from a rough draft of the life in manuscript that
undoubtedly served as the basis for the copy here followed in
the text. In addition, moreover, to the value of this sketch as
1 Thomas Fowler, Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, Lond., 1882.
vi. Prefatory Introduction.
an original and heretofore comparatively inaccessible source of
information for the life of the third Earl, its publication here
affords in a compact and narrative form the various events in
his career necessary to be known by the reader in order to
obtain a clear and ready understanding of the contents of the
letters which immediately follow in the work.
The second division of this book comprises, with a few
indicated exceptions, the unpublished letters of Shaftesbury.
These begin in 1689, when he was eighteen years of age, and
continue for the most part with desirable regularity, until the
time of his death in 1713. The social position, political activity,
and philosophical renown of the writer accord to them an
unwonted value. The events of his personal life, and the
character of the times in which he lived, are here revealed
with a naturalness and sincerity which impart to the corres
pondence a charm often lacking in similar productions too
evidently intended for posthumous publication. All these
letters have been arranged in their chronological order. Certain
characteristic series of them may, however, very properly be
mentioned.
Scattered throughout the work is a succession of letters
which relate to the personal and family affairs of the third Earl.
A small volume of such letters, chiefly -in reference to his first
unsuccessful love affair and subsequent marriage to another, was
published in 1721, by John Toland. These were printed during
the lifetime of the two ladies concerned, and naturally evoked
the indignation of the fourth Earl. Shaftesbury 's engagement
to a lady whom he had never seen does not conform, it is true,
with modern standards and procedure. Nevertheless the choice
is not difficult to make between a courtship that might largely
have preceded marriage and the continued and deepening
devotion which the third Earl bestowed on his wife throughout
their wedded life. There is nothing that demands concealment
in his career, whatever his mistakes or shortcomings ; the more
closely one presses home upon the inner motives and exalted
purpose of his life the richer and more ennobling does his
character appear. Without any attempt at perversion, therefore,
much new material here awaits the reader from Shaftesbury 's
correspondence with relatives, household officers, and life-long
friends.
Prefatory Introduction. vii.
The letters of this volume which perhaps most strikingly
disclose the benevolent disposition of Shaftesbury are those
written to or concerning young men. This gracious trait was
first made known by a small collection of his letters printed in
1716, entitled " Several Letters written by a Noble Lord to
a Young Man at the University." These were addressed by
Shaftesbury to Michael Ainsworth, a student taken by him from
his own household and sent to University College, Oxford. The
originals of most of these letters, as well as of several additional
to " Good Michael," as he is generally styled in them, are among
the Shaftesbury papers. Only such of them as are of marked
value or have been tampered with in the printed book are here
reproduced. The letters of this volume will be found to exhibit
a much broader range of Shaftesbury 's philanthropic efforts.
They disclose a constant and unvarying helpfulness to numerous
aspiring youths maintained throughout his entire life. Whether
the proteges succeeded or failed his active goodness suffered no
diminution or restraint. A most typical instance of this
benevolence may be mentioned in the fact that the only reward
he sought for many years of political service was a civil position,
not for himself or any of his relatives, but for his deserving
young friend Micklethwayte. Various letters in this work,
moreover, show that he insisted upon the fulfilment of this claim
with unyielding persistency amid changing political factions
until at length he won. It is this generous and self-sacrificing
spirit so frequently displayed in the interests of others which
proves the third Earl to have been a most worthy predecessor
to the noble and philanthropic seventh Earl of Shaftesbury.
Historical interest will chiefly centre in the political letters
from the pen of Shaftesbury which this work contains. He
played either an active part or tendered when in retirement
fruitful advice during the prolonged critical period in English
national affairs when the Stuart dynasty gradually gave place
to the present ruling house of Guelph. Throughout the reign of
William of Orange, and in that of his successor Queen Anne,
Shaftesbury was loyal to the maintenance of a Protestant
succession. During his entire parliamentary career, moreover,
he ever exercised a "passion for true liberty." The political
measures which he most strongly supported at home were those
which had for their aim the protection of the rights and liberty
viii. Prefatory Introduction.
of the individual. In foreign affairs he resisted to the end of
his life every doubtful compromise on the part of England with
Louis XIV. of France, whose desire for universal monarchy
he deemed the most threatening and direful evil of his time.
His true compatriots were thus discovered among the
liberty-loving spirits of the Netherlands, whom he thrice
visited, and with whom he was in constant communication.
Considerable political material from this source by Shaftesbury
has already been made public in the " Original Letters," [
addressed by him to Benjamin Furly, the English Quaker
merchant at Rotterdam. The manuscripts of these are now in
the Record Office, and they have here occasionally been used to
give proper continuity to the political career of Shaftesbury.
The fresh and additional value of the present volume consists in
heretofore unpublished correspondence, which clearly reveals for
the first time his direct personal relations with the chief military
and parliamentary leaders of his time. Of the former class this
work contains letters to General Stanhope, to the family of Lord
Peterborough, and to the great Duke of Marlborough; and of the
latter class among others to Lord Godolphin, to Lord Sunderland,
and to the noble Lord Somers. The numerous letters to John
Molesworth, a foreign envoy, have, moreover, throughout a
political character.
Inasmuch as Shaftesbury 's reputation has heretofore chiefly
rested on his authorship of " The Characteristics," correspondence
of a philosophical import would naturally by many be most
eagerly sought. Among the earliest letters in this volume are
a considerable number written by Shaftesbury to John Locke.
They afford the much desired information as to the personal
correspondence of the two philosophers. These letters were
originally included among the manuscripts bequeathed in 1704
by Locke to his near relative and sole executor, Sir Peter King,
who afterwards became Lord Chancellor of England. They are
now the property of this Chancellor's lineal descendant, the
Hon. Captain Lionel Fortescue King Noel, second son of the
first Earl of Lovelace. To the courtesy of the present owner of
1 Original letters of Locke, Algernon Sidney, and Anthony Lord
Shaftesbury, edited by Thomas Forster. Lond., 1830; second edition,
1847.
Prefatory Introduction. ix.
this Lovelace collection, which has here been so fittingly
exhibited in the cause of learning by the grandson of Lord
Peter King, to whom we owe a " Life of Locke," the readers of
work are indebted for their present publication. In
connection with these letters to Locke, mention must also be
made of two additional letters of Shaftesbury in this work
relating to that philosopher. In the one dated December, 1704,
written to a young friend, Locke's farewell charge to Anthony
Collins receives from Shaftesbury a very remarkable counter
charge; and in the other, dated November 9th, 1709, addressed
to General Stanhope, Shaftesbury reveals his secret opinion
of Locke's philosophy, inasmuch as he writes in it to his
philosophical disciple: "I have thus ventured to make you the
greatest confidence in the world, which is that of my philosophy
against my old tutor and governour." The letters to Pierre
Coste, Jean Le Clerc, and Des Maizeauz, which here appear,
are all of philosophical interest, as they make known to us
Shaftesbury's connection with these contemporary philosophical
writers. Especially valuable are the references which those
to Coste contain of Shaftesbury's relations to Leibnitz. The
entire series of letters to Lord Somers, above mentioned, have
moreover a unique philosophical importance. As is well known,
Shaftesbury's " Letter concerning Design," which was included
in " The Characteristics" for the first time in the edition of 1732,
was written to accompany a gift of his " Treatise on the Judg
ment of Hercules" to Lord Somers. But every preceding treatise
of Shaftesbury was in like manner presented to Lord Somers
with a similar accompaniment of a letter. This remarkable series
of letters of presentation now appears for the first time in print.
In the letters to Thomas Micklethwayte will be found the inter
pretation of the mythical illustrations and an account of the
numerous changes in the second edition of " The Characteristics."
The kindness of Shaftesbury to this young man was well repaid
by his undertaking the publication of that revised work during
the author's last illness in Italy. The philosophy of Horace, as
it may justly be termed, is contained in a letter of October 1st,
1706, written by Shaftesbury to Pierre Coste. The study,
indeed, of the ancient classics, and more especially of the works
of Horace, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, had the profoundest
bearing upon Shaftesbury's own philosophy.
x. Prefatory Introduction.
The third division of this work consists of the Philosophical
Regimen of Shaftesbury. This is a most natural supplement to
the sketch of his life and to the preceding letters, inasmuch as it
is a revelation both of the inmost purpose and of the outward
procedure of his life. The manuscript material of this portion is
to be found in two note-books among the Shaftesbury Papers of
the London Record Office. The earliest writing in these books
is dated Holland, 1698, and the latest, Naples, 1712. Their
contents thus cover almost the entire period of the author's
literary activity, but centre chiefly, however, about his two
"retreats" into Holland, the one in 1698 and the other in
1703-4. The form in which the work is written is that of a
series of reflections upon various philosophical subjects. These
include such topics, among others, as natural affections, deity,
good and ill, human affairs, self, passions, pleasure and pain,
fancy, character, nature, life, and philosophy. The reflections on
the different subjects are intermingled among one another in the
note-books, but are brought together under their several themes
in this printed reproduction of them.
Shaftesbury entitles the reflections 'Aovo^uara (exercises).
The title of Philosophical Regimen is, however, here employed
both because the term regimen is frequently used by him in
reference to the reflections, and also because it best reflects their
true meaning and character. Many passages throughout the
work may be discovered which thus clearly indicate the purport
of the reflections in the mind of Shaftesbury. The real key,
however, to their interpretation is contained under the subject
Improvement. " Memorandums," he here writes, " for what ?
About what ? A small concern perhaps, a trifle, for what else
can it be ? Neither estate, nor money, nor policy, nor history,
nor learning, nor private affairs, nor public. These are great
things. In these are great improvements. How many memor
andums, how many common-place books about these ? Who
would think of any other memorandums ? Would one think
of making any for Life. Would one think that this were a
business to improve in ? What if this should be the thing of all
others chosen out for a pocket-book and memorandums ? But so
it is . . . Begin therefore and work upon this subject.
Collect, digest, methodize, abstract. How many codes, how many
volumes, how much labour, and what compiling in the study of
Prefatory Introduction. xi.
other laws ? But in the law of life how ? They who seek not
any such in life, nor think that there is any rule, what are they
better than vulgar ? " The reflections of Shaftesbury printed in
this work thus embody the attempt made by him to ascertain
the correct principles of life and to map out the rules of their
practical application in his own conduct. They are a veritable
Philosophical Regimen.
To discover a law and a code of life Shaftesbury pursued,
especially during his retreats in Holland, the study of classical
authors among the ancients. " Perhaps no modern," says Toland
in his introduction to the Shaftesbury letters, " ever turned the
ancients more into sap and blood, as they say, than he. Their
doctrines he understood as well as themselves, and their virtues
he practiced better." If this statement be limited to the Stoics
it is most accurate. It was with the works of Epictetus and
Marcus Aurelius that Shaftesbury was most thoroughly con
versant. From them he draws most of the topics and their
maxims in the Regimen. He reproduces not only their thought
but also to a considerable extent their technical language. It
would be difficult indeed to find any author with quotations in
every instance so apt as those which Shaftesbury makes from
these writers. With their philosophy, moreover, he was most
thoroughly saturated. "Nor were there indeed," he writes,
" any more than two real distinct philosophies, the one derived
from Socrates and passing into the old academic, peripatetic and
stoic ; the other derived in reality from Democritus and passing
into the Cyrenaic and Epicurean. The first, therefore, of these
two philosophers recommended action, concernment in civil
affairs, religion, &c., the second derided all this and advised
inaction and retreat. And with good reason, for the first main
tained that society, right and wrong were founded in nature, and
that nature had a meaning, and was herself, that is to say, in her
wits, well-governed and administered by one simple and perfect
intelligence. The second derided this and made Providence and
dame nature not so sensible as a doting old woman. The first,
therefore, of these philosophies is to be called the civil, social,
theistic ; the second, the contrary." Almost every page of the
Regimen demonstrates that the philosophy of Shaftesbury
belongs to what in this passage he calls the civil, social and
theistic, derivable from the Stoics. The real sources of his
xii. Prefatory Introduction.
philosophy are to be sought in particular in Epictetus and
Marcus Aurelius.
Although the philosophy of Shaf tesbury is thus founded on
stoicism, this Philosophical Regimen is a new and brilliant
presentation of that moral system. The discourses of Epictetus
were uttered, it is believed, extempore. They have a popular
form, but often lack in continuity of expression. The thoughts of
Marcus Aurelius, on the other hand, were written down merely
for personal use. They bear the evidence of private honesty, but
are stated in short paragraphs which are often obscure. The
merits rather than the defects of these two works are combined
in the Philosophical Regimen of Shaftesbury. It is written in
a style that can at all times be readily understood, and it likewise
possesses all the sincerity of personal writing where the purpose
is " only to improve by these, not publish, profess, or teach them."
The eloquence of the utterance is frequently such as could only
have proceeded from Shaftesbury, whose method of philosophical
rhapsody so captivated his contemporary Leibnitz. The per
manent strength of this Regimen, however, consists in the fact
that it is one of the most consistent and thorough-going attempts
ever made to transform a philosophy into a life. Just as Spinoza
was "God-intoxicated," so Shaftesbury was "intoxicated with the
idea of virtue." He is the greatest Stoic of modern times. Into
his own life he wrought the stoical virtue for virtue's sake.
This exalted purpose he sought to attain by means of this
Regimen. It thus embodies a philosophy which must compel
a renewed and critical study from the stoical standpoint of his
" Characteristics." Indeed, it may be said, we believe, with
perfect truth that there has been no such strong expression of
stoicism since the days of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius as that
contained in the Philosophical Regimen of Shaftesbury. The
Greek slave, the Roman emperor, and the English nobleman
must abide the three great exponents of stoical philosophy.
BENJAMIN RAND.
HARVARD UNIVERSITY.
CONTENTS,
PREFATORY INTRODUCTION.
PAGE
Y.
SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE THIRD EARL OF SHAFTESBURY : BY HIS SON,
THE FOURTH EARL ,.. xvii.
I.-THE PHILOSOPHICAL REGIMEN.
•NATURAL AFFECTION 1
DEITY 13
PROVIDENCE 40
THE END 48
GOOD AND ILL 53
SHAME 60
REPUTATION 64
HUMAN AFFAIRS 70
-NECESSITY 90
POLITICAL AFFAIRS 100
FRIENDS 104
SMALL POSSESSIONS 109
SELF 112
•ARTIFICIAL OR ECONOMICAL SELF ... 124
-NATURAL SELF 133
FAMILIARITY 140
THE BODY .. 147
PASSIONS
PLEASURE AND PAIN
FANCIES OR APPEARANCES
SIMPLICITY .
151
161'
164
179
NATURE 184
CHARACTER AND CONDUCT 189
CHARACTER 192
FANCY AND JUDGMENT 207
THE ASCENTS OF THE JUDGMENT 209
NATURAL CONCEPTS 214
OPINION AND PRECEPTS 221
MAXIMS 224
ATTENTION AND RELAXATION 231
IMPROVEMENT 239
THE BEAUTIFUL 244
LIFE 253
PHILOSOPHY ... 267>
II.— LETTERS OF SHAFTESBURY.
To John Locke, December 1st, 1687 ... 273
„ John Locke, December 22nd, 1687 ... 274
„ his Father, May 3rd, old style [1689] ... 275
„ his Father, July, 1689 280
,, Mr. Taylor, of Weymouth, February
16th, 1689-90 285
„ John Locke, January 21st, 1692 287
„ John Locke, March 3rd, 1692 288
„ John Locke, March 26th, 1691-2 ... 289
„ John Locke, July 7th, 1692 291
„ John Locke, (?) 6th, 1693 294
„ John Locke, May 28th, 1694 294
„ John Locke, September 8th, 1694 ... 296
„ John Locke, November 29th, 1694 ... 299
,, Thomas Stringer, February 15th,
1695 300
„ his Mother, beginning of 1696 301
„ Lord Rutland, April, 1696 302
To his Mother, October 10th, 1696 303
„ his Mother, November 14th, 1696 ... 305
,, John Locke, April 9th, 1698 306
„ M. Des Maizaux, August 5th, 1701 ... 307
„ Mr. Bennett, November 15th, 1701 ... 308
,, Benjamin Furley, November 29th,
1701 309
„ Lord Marlborough, April 10th, 1702 ... 310
,, Benjamin Furley, November 4th,
1702 312
,, M. Des Maizaux, November 2nd,
1703 313
„ John Wheelock, November 6th, 1703.. 314
„ John Wheelock, November 16th, 1703. 315
,, Lord Sunderland, November 9th,
1703 317
,, Sir Rowland Gwinn, January 23rd,
1704 ... 318
XIV.
Contents.
PAGE
To the Bishop of Sarum, February 5th,
1704 320
„ his Sister Frances, March 18th, 1704... 321
„ Sir Rowland Gwinn, April 19th,
1704 322
„ John Locke, September 7th, 1704 ... 323
„ Dr. Burgess, January (?), 1704-5 ... 324
,, Peter King, January, 1704-5 325
„ Jean Le Clerc, January 13th, 1705 ... 326
--,, Jean Le Clerc, February 8th, 1705 ... 328
,, Sir Rowland Gwinn, February 24th,
1704-5 334
„ Lord Somers, October 20th, 1705 ... 336
„ Lady Peterborough, October (?), 1705 . 341
„ Lord Cowper, December 2nd, 1705 ... 344
„ a Friend, December 2nd, 1704-5 344
„ Mr. Van Twedde, January 17th, 1705-6. 347
„ Jean Le Clerc, March 6th, 1705-6 ... 352
„ Mr. Stephens, July 17th, 1706 354
*.„ Pierre Coste, October 1st, 1706 355
„ Teresias, November 29th, 1706 366
,, Lord Sunderland, December 7th,
1706 369
„ the Duke of Marlborough, December
7th, 1706 371
,, Lord Somers, January, 1706-7 371
,, M. Basnage, January 21st, 1706-7 ... 372
„ Joseph Micklethwayte, January llth,
1706-7 378
,, Joseph Micklethwayte, February 26th,
1706-7 379
,, Michael Ainsworth, October 3rd, 1707 381
,, Zvlaurice Ashley, October 21st, 1707... 382
„ Maurice Ashley, November 5th, 1707... 383
,, Robert Moles worth, December 13th,
1707 383
„ Mr. Darby, February 2nd, 1708 385
„ Lord Somers, July 12th, 1708 386
,, Benjamin Furley, July 22nd, 1708 ... 387
„ Robert Molesworth, September 30th,
1708 389
,, Robert Molesworth, October 23rd,
1708 391
„ Lord Somflrs, December 10th, 1708 ... 394
,, Lord Halifax, December 16th, 1708... 395
,, Pierre Coste, February 19th, 1708-9 ... 396
„ Lord Townsend, May 28th, 1709 ... 399
„ Lord Somers, June 2nd, 1709 400
,, Michael Ainsworth, June 3rd, 1709 ... 403
„ John Wheelock, July 9th, 1709 405
,, John Wheelock, August 8th, 1709 ... 406
,, Lady Russell, August 24th, 1709 408
,, Maurice Ashley, August 24th, 1709 ... 409
„ James Eyre, August 26th, 1709 409
„ Jean Le Clerc, November 6th, 1709 ... 411
PAGE
To General Stanhope, November 7th,
1709 413
,, Arent Furley, November 7th, 1709 ... 417
„ Thomas Walker, April 23rd, 1710 ... 418
,, Bishop Burnet, May 23rd, 1710 419
„ Lord Somers, May 26th, 1710 420
„ Michael Ainsworth, July 10th, 1710 ... 421
„ Jean Le Clerc, July 19th, 1710 422
„ Sir John Cropley, July 24th, 1710 ... 425
,, Lord Godolphin, January 29th, 1710-11 426
,, Lord Dartmouth, January 29th, 1710-U 427
,, Lord Halifax, February 23rd, 1710-11 . 428
„ Lord Howe, March 26th, 1711 429
,, Lord Somers, March 30th, 1711 430
„ Lady Waldegrave, May 4th, 1711 ... 433
„ Michael Ainsworth, May llth, 1711 ... 434
„ Lord Godolphin, May 27th 1711 435
„ Sir John Cropley, July 2nd, 1711 ... 435
„ Sir John Cropley, August llth, 1711... 436
„ Thomas Micklethwayte, August llth,
1711 438
,, the Duke of Berwick, August 28th,
1711 441
„ the Duke of Berwick, September 5th,
1711 442
„ Pierre Coste, October 3rd, 1711 442
,, John Molesworth, September 7th,
1711 444
,, John Wheelock, November 6th, 1711 . 445
„ Mr. Chetwynd, November 17th, 1711 .. 446
,, Pierre Coste, November 23rd, 1711 ... 447
„ Thomas Micklethwaite (?) ... 448
,, Thomas Micklethwait, December 8th,
1711 ... 449
„ John Molesworth, December 15th,
1711 452
„ Sir John Cropley, December 29th,
1711 453
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, December
29th, 1711 455
,, Pierre Coste, January 12th, 1712 ... 459
,, John Molesworth, January 19th, 1712 . 461
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, January 19th,
1712 462
,, The Rev. Dr. Fagan, January 23rd,
1711-2 466
,, Sir John Cropley, February 16th,
1712 468
„ John Wheelock, February 23rd, 1712 . 470
„ Thomas Micklethwait, February 23rd,
1712 472
„ Sir John Cropley, March 1st, 1712 ... 475
„ Thomas Micklethwaite, March 9th,
1712 477
„ John Molesworth, March 29th, 1712 ... 480
Contents.
xv.
To Sir John Cropley, March 29th, 1712 ... 481
„ Mr. Chetwynd, April 5th, 1712 482
,, Thomas Micklethwait, April 12th,
1712 484
„ Sir John Cropley, April 12th, 1712 ... 437
„ AbbeFarely, May 3rd, 1712 488
„ John Molesworth, May 17th, 1712 ... 490
„ The Rev. Dr. Fagan, May 21st, 1712... 491
„ Pierre Coste, June 5th, 1712 492
„ Sir John Cropley, June 7th, 1712 ... 495
„ Thomas Micklethwaite, June 28th,
1712 496
„ John Wheelock, July 12th, 1712 498
„ Thomas Micklethwaite, July 19th,
1712 499
„ Pierre Coste, July 25th, 1712 502
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, August 2nd,
1712 505
„ John Molesworth, August 2nd, 1712 ... 508
,, Sir John Cropley, August 9th, 1712 ... 510
,, Benjamin Furley, August 9th, 1712 ... 510
,, John Molesworth, August 30th, 1712 ... 511
„ Thomas Micklethwaite, August 30th,
1712 ... 514
PAGE
To Sir John Cropley, October llth,
1712 517
,, Benjamin Furly, October 18th, 1712... 519
,, John Molesworth, October 25th,
1712 520
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, November
22nd, 1712 522
,, Pierre Coste, November 22nd, 1712 ... 523
,, Sir John Cropley, November 22nd,
1712 ... ! 524
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, December
20th, 1712 527
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, December
27th, 1712 529
,, Thomas Mictlethwaite, January 3rd,
1713 529
,, Sir John Cropley, January 10th,
1713 531
,, Thomas Micklethwaite, January 10th,
1712 532
,, John Wheelock, January 10th,
1713 533
Mr. Crell to John Wheelock, February
21st, 1713 ... ... 535
A SKETCH OF THE LIFE
i
OF THE
THIKD EAEL OF SHAFTESBURY,
BY HIS SON, THE FOURTH EARL.
The following sketch of my father's life was once
intended to have been prefixed to the new edition of the
Characteristics, though upon considering further on it that
thought was laid aside ; for the lives of persons who spend most
of their time in study and retirement can never afford matter to
enliven a narrative; that probably the expectations of the
generality of the world might be raised to conceive, they should
find something which neither the capacity of the writer nor the
nature of the subject would admit. The single end proposed in
these few sheets is, by giving the character and sentiments of the
author of the Characteristics, as they really were, to take off some
ill impressions which well-meaning persons may possibly have
received from many calumnies which have been cast on him. I
am sensible the works themselves must be tried by their own
merit and not by the absurd comments of envy or error. And as
some of these inquisitors have descended so low as even to quote
passages from my father's private letters to maintain their
charge against him, I hope I shall not be thought impertinent
in quoting some others of his private writings, which are in a
great measure necessary to mention in going through the account
of his life, and which may possibly be a means to explain those
passages in the CJiaracteristics which have by some been greatly
misapprehended.
I hope I need not make any apology for prefixing the
following relation of my father's life to this edition of the
B
xviii. Life Sketch.
Characteristics. Some sketch of an author's life is generally
pleasing to the curious. A just representation of his character
must be agreeable to the candid. And as this short account will
give a view of his real opinion of our national church and
religion, it may possibly be a means to explain those passages in
his writings, which have by some been greatly misapprehended.
My father was born the 26th of February, 1670-1, at Exeter
House, in London (where his grandfather1 lived) who, from the
time of his birth, conceived so great an affection for him that he
undertook the care of his education, and who, being sensible of the
great advantages which accrue from a good share of literature,
1 The first Earl of Shaf tesbury, one of the foremost statesmen of
his time, was born 22nd July, 1621. He married (1) Margaret, third
daughter of Thomas, Lord of Coventry, February 25th, 1639, who
died July llth, 1649; (2) Lady Frances Cecil, daughter of David,
third Earl of Exeter, April 25th, 1650, by whom he had one son,
Anthony; and (3) Margaret, sixth daughter of William, second Lord
Spencer, of Worthington. The first Earl died January 31st, 1683, in
Holland. Anthony, his only son and successor (father of the third
earl), born 16th January, 1651-2, married September 22nd, 1669,
Dorothy, third daughter of John, eighth Earl of Rutland, by whom
he had issue of three sons — Anthony, John, Maurice ; and four
daughters — Lady Frances, married to Francis Stonehouse, Esq., of
Hungerford Parks, in Co. Berkshire ; Lady Elizabeth, wife of James
Harris, Esq., of Salisbury; and Lady Dorothy, espoused to Edward
Hooper, Esq., of Hurn Court, in Co. Hampshire; and died in 1749;
Gertrude, the other daughter, died unmarried. His Lordship dying
10th November, 1699, was succeeded by Anthony (third Earl); the
second son, John, died before him in his 21st year, or 1693; Maurice
lived till 1726. He was many years in the House of Commons, and
in the 13th of King William was chosen from Wiltshire. The second
Earl died November 10th, 1699. (Memorandum in Shaf tesbury MSS.)
Anthony, third Earl of Shaf tesbury, author of " The Characteristics,"
was born on 26th February, 1671, married Jane, daughter of Thomas
Ewer, Esq., of Bushey Hall, Lea, county Hertford, August 29th, 1709
(died November 23rd, 1751), and had issue of one son, Anthony (the
fourth Earl). The third Earl died February 15th, 1713, in Naples.
Anthony, the fourth Earl, was born February 9th, 1711, married (1)
Lady Susannah Noel in 1725, (2) Mary, daughter of Jacob, Viscount
Folkestone, 22nd March, 1759, and had issue, Anthony, born
September, 1761. The fourth Earl died May 29th, 1771.
Life Sketch. xix.
thought that necessary work could not be begun too early.
That his grandson, therefore, might make the quickest dispatch,
he chose a method of instilling (as it were) the ancient languages
into him by placing a person* about him who was so thoroughly
versed in the Greek and Latin tongues that she could speak
either of them with the greatest fluency. By this person's
instructions my father made so good a progress in his learning
that he could read with ease both the Latin and Greek tongues
when eleven years old. At this age his grandfather sent him to
a private school, where he remained till after his grandfather's
death. In the end of the summer following, viz., 1683, his
father carried him to Winchester, where he was treated very
indifferently by all except the schoolmaster (Dr. Harris),
being often insulted on his grandfather's account, whose
memory was very odious to the zealots for despotic power. His
ill-usage there made Winchester very irksome to him, and
therefore he prevailed with his father to take him
from thence and consent to his desire of seeing foreign
countries. He began his travels in 1686. The person who
attended him as tutor1 was a very ingenious, honest man, and
every way qualified for the employment. Sir John Cropley too
(with whom my father continued in the closest friendship to the
end of his life) accompanied him everywhere, together with
Mr. Thomas Sclater Bacon. My father spent a considerable time
in Italy, where he acquired a great knowledge in the polite arts.2
That he had a sound judgment in painting, the treatises he wrote
on that subject plainly evince. He understood sculpture also
extremely well, and could himself design to some degree of
perfection. Of the rudiments of music too he was not ignorant,
and his thoughts concerning it have been approved by the
greatest masters in that science. He made it his endeavour
while abroad to apply himself as much as possible to the
improving in those accomplishments, and for that reason did not
* " Mrs. Elizabeth Birch, daughter of a schoolmaster of Oxford
or Berkshire." Rough Draft of the Life in Shaftesbury's MSS.
1 Rough Draft : " Mr. Daniel Denoue, a Scotchman."
2 Rough Draft : " Such that he might very properly be called a
virtuoso."
xx. Life Sketch.
greatly seek the conversation of other English young gentlemen on
their travels (which as he had friends along with him he had the
less occasion to desire). But whenever it happened that this could
not conveniently be avoided, it was observed his discourse was
principally directed to the young gentlemen's tutors, from whom
he might either learn something or at least converse on such
topics as were most agreeable to his genius. He spoke French
so readily, and with so good an accent, that in France he was
often taken for a native ; and the ease and agility he showed in
performing those exercises in which that nation excel, contri
buted to the leading them into that opinion.
My father, after three years' stay abroad, returned to
England (in 1689) and was offered a seat in Parliament from
some of those boroughs where the family had held an
interest. But there were several reasons which induced him
not to accept their offer at that particular time; and what
prevailed more strongly with him than anything was the
resolution he had taken of applying himself entirely to study,
and to increasing his knowledge in those subjects with which
it is of consequence to be acquainted.1 In these he happily
succeeded, and his learning, though very extensive, was that of an
ingenious gentleman. My father continued his strict course of
study nearly five years, till on Sir John Trenchard's2 death he
was elected a burgess for Pool. Soon after his coming into
Parliament he had an opportunity given him of expressing
that spirit of liberty which he maintained to the end
of his life, and by which he always directed his public conduct.
It was the bringing in the Treason Act3 which appeared to
1 Quod aeque pauperibus prodest, locupletibus aeque. Aeque
neglectum pueris senibusque nocebit. [" Which is of equal benefit to
the poor and to the rich ; which neglected will be of equal detriment
to young and old."]— Horace Epist. II., 1, 25-26.
2 Sir John Trenchard (1640-1695) was a prominent opponent of
the Stuart Dynasty. He became Secretary of State after the accession
to the throne of King William.
3 The Parliament which met on the 22nd of November, 1695,
passed early in its first session the famous Act for regulating trials in
case of treason, in which there was a special provision that a person
indicted for treason should be granted the benefit of counsel.
Life Sketch. xxi.
him the more necessary, as his family at the end of King
Charles's reign had been in great danger for want of such
a law. He was determined, therefore, to contribute all his
endeavours towards the passing of what he thought requisite to
secure the life of the subject, which might be taken away
almost at the pleasure of the crown. The removing of this
defect in our constitution was by most friends to liberty looked
on as a matter of the last importance. To this end my father
prepared a speech, which those, to whom he showed it, thought a
very proper one upon the occasion. But when he stood up to
speak it in the House of Commons the great audience so
intimidated him that he lost all memory, and could not utter
a syllable of what he intended, by which he found how true
Mr. Locke's caution to him had been, not to engage at first setting
out in an undertaking of difficulty, but to rise to it gradually.
The House, after giving him a little time to recover, called loudly
for him to go on, when he proceeded to this effect : — " If I,
sir, who rise only to speak my opinion on the Bill now
depending, am so confounded that I am unable to express
the least of what I proposed to say, what must the
condition of that man be who is pleading for his life
without any assistance and under apprehensions of being
deprived of it ? " The sudden turn of thought (which by some
was imagined to have been premeditated, though it really was as
I mention it) pleased the house extremely ; and it is generally
believed, carried a greater weight with it than any of the
arguments which were offered in favour of the bill * which was
sent to the Lords and passed accordingly. My father during this
and the other sessions he continued in the House persevered in
the same way of acting, always heartily concurring in every
motion for the further securing of liberty; and though these
motions very frequently came from people who were of a
differently-denominated party in politics, yet he was never for
refusing any proposal that he apprehended to be beneficial to his
1 This story is also related of Charles Montague, subsequently
Earl of Halifax, in his Memoirs (p. 30), published in 1715. The
minuteness of detail in the present account would however tend to
confirm its application to Lord Ashley.
xxii. Life Sketch.
country, and was always for improving the present opportunity,
forming his judgment of things by their own merit, and not by
the quarter from whence they came. This independent manner
of acting which my father observed himself, he also strove to
increase in others to the utmost of his power, as he was sensible
that independency is the essence of freedom.1 The fatigues of
attending regularly upon the service of the House (which in
those active times generally sat long) as well as upon committees
at night, in a few years so impaired my father's health, who was
not of a robust constitution, that he was obliged to decline
coming again into Parliament after the dissolution in 1698.
My father, being released from the confinement of the House,
was at liberty to spend his time wherever it was most agreeable
to him. He went directly into Holland, where he became
acquainted with several learned and ingenious men2 who resided
in that country, which induced him to continue there about a
twelve-month. Being determined not to be interrupted in what
he principally went thither to follow, viz., studying, and that in
the most private manner, he concealed his name, pretending to be
only a student in physic, and in that character became
acquainted with the celebrated Mr. Bayle,3 with whom he soon
grew intimate. A little before his return to England, being
willing to be made known to him by his real name, he contrived
to have Mr. Bayle invited to dinner by a friend, where he
was told he was to meet my Lord Shaftesbury. Mr. Bayle,
accidentally calling upon my father that morning, was
pressed by him to stay. " I can by no means," said Mr. Bayle,
1 Rough Draft : " Several gentlemen in the House of Commons who
were of the same sentiments with my father formed a little society by
the name of the Independent Club, of which he was a member, and had
a chief hand in setting up, but the club was of no long duration."
2 Amongst the " learned and ingenious men " were undoubtedly
Joh. Le Clerc, editor of the JBibliotheque Universelle ; Phillipe van
Limborch, the celebrated Dutch theologian ; Benjamin Furly, an
English quaker merchant, the correspondent alike of Shaftesbury
and of Locke ; and Pierre Bayle, subsequently the author of the
Dictionnaire Universelle.
3 Benjamin Furly, at whose house Locke had resided during his
stay in Rotterdam.
Life Sketch. xxiii.
" for I must be punctual to an engagement where I am to
meet my Lord Shaftesbury."1 The second interview, as may be
imagined, caused some mirth, and their intimacy was rather
increased than lessened after the discovery2, for they never ceased
a correspondence after my father's return, till Mr. Bayle's death.
During my father's stay in Holland an imperfect edition3
of his Inquiry after Virtue was printed, surreptitiously taken
from a rough draft, sketched when he was but twenty years
of age. He was greatly chagrined at this, and immediately
bought up the whole impression before many of the books were
sold, and set about completing the Treatise which he published4
himself not long after. The person who treated him so unhand
somely he soon discovered to be Mr. John Toland, who made this
ungrateful return for the many favours he had received from
him. Indeed my father then allowed him (at his earnest impor
tunity) an annual stipend, though he never had any great opinion
1 Properly Lord Ashley, as this was his title while his father lived.
2 In the MS. of this life the Fourth Earl gives the account of
the acquaintance of the Third Earl with Bayle, and also of the
surreptitious publication of the Inquiry, which immediately follows, in
connection with his father's visit to Holland in 1703-04. Both
incidents have here been transferred to the earlier visit of 1698-99.
This change has been made not only in accord with the example of
Birch in The General Dictionary, whose publication was revised by the
Fourth Earl, but more particularly because there is direct evidence
from the letters of Shaftesbury that he was acquainted with Bayle
prior to 1704. In a letter, for instance, to Furly (dated January 30th,
1702) he expressly states : "I received lately a present from Mr. Bayle
of his Dictionary, for which pray return him my humble thanks.
I shall do it myself in a post or two." The publication of the Inquiry,
moreover, belonged with certainty to the earlier visit.
3 Shaftesbury himself, in a letter dated June the 3rd, 1709 (p. 403)
also styles this edition "an imperfect thing, brought into the world
many years since contrary to the author's design, in his absence beyond
sea and in a disguised disordered style. It may one day perhaps be
set right, since other things have made it to be inquired after."
4 The Inquiry, as completed, was printed in second volume of the
first edition of the Characteristics, where it is described as "printed
first in 1699," and "formerly printed from an imperfect copy; now
corrected and published entire."
xxiv. Life Sketch.
of him. In this manner he also frequently bestowed pensions
on men of learning who stood in need of such assistance, and gave
sums of money besides to those, whom by experience, he found
deserving.
Soon after my father returned to England in November, 1699,
he became Earl of Shaf tesbury. The multiplicity of business in
which he was necessarily involved by the taking possession of
his estate so fully employed him (as he was always so prudent
as to inspect his affairs with a proper care) that he was prevented
from attending the House of Lords the first session after he
came to the Peerage; nor did he appear there the next till his
friend, my Lord Somers, sent a messenger to acquaint him with
the business which the Parliament then had under considera
tion, viz., the Partition Treaty in February, 1700-1. Immediately
upon this notice he went post to London, and though when Lord
Somers' letter was brought to him he was in Somersetshire,
yet he made such despatch as to be present in the House
of Lords the day following. So great a fatigue to one in
his infirm state of health was enough to endanger even
his life. But he was willing to hazard that or whatever he
was possessed of when he thought the doing of it was for the
service of his country. He attended the House the remainder
of the session as much as his health would permit, being earnest
to support King William's measures, who was at that time
projecting the Grand Alliance. In my father's judgment
nothing could assist that glorious undertaking more effectually
than the choice of a good Parliament. He therefore did his
utmost upon the dissolution of this, to contribute to that design ;
and was so successful (the parties being then near an equality)
that the King told him he had turned the scale ; and my father
after this was so well approved of by the King that he had the
offer of the place of Secretary of State. This, however, his
declining constitution would not allow him to accept. But,
although he was disabled from engaging in such a course of
business, he was not prevented from giving the King his advice,
who frequently consulted him on matters of the highest
importance ; and it is pretty well known that he had the
greatest share in composing that celebrated last speech of King
William, December 31st, 1701. On the Accession of Queen Anne
Life Sketch. xxv.
to the throne, he returned again to his retired manner of living,
being no longer advised with concerning the public, and was at
this time removed from the Vice-Admiralty of Dorset, which had
been in the family for three successive generations. This slight,
though it was a matter of no sort of consequence to my
father, was the only one that could be shown him, as it was
the single thing he held under the Crown, and was imagined to
have been advised by some of those who resented my father's
services to the other party in the late reign.
My father made a second journey to Holland in the
beginning of the year 1703, and returned again to England
at the end of the year 1704. Soon afterwards the French
Prophets1 vented their enthusiastic extravagancies which made a
great deal of noise throughout the kingdom. There were
different opinions as to the method of suppressing this distrac
tion, or at least of stopping its progress, and some advised a
prosecution. But my father, who had thoroughly considered the
matter, and abhorred any step that looked like persecution,
apprehended that such measures tended rather to inflame
than cure the disease. This occasioned his Letter concerning
Enthusiasm2 which he sent to Lord Somers, then President of
1 The French Prophets arose among the poor peasants of the
Cevennes who were driven from their homes by the Edict of Nantes.
2 " It was published in August, 1708, at London, in 8vo. under this
title, ' A Letter Concerning Enthusiasm to my Lord . . .,' and
was attacked in October following in a pamphlet in 8vo., entitled,
1 Remarks upon a Letter to a Lord concerning Enthusiasm, not
written in raillery but good humour'; and in another, published in
May, 1709, in 8vo., under the title of c Bart'lemy Fair, or an
enquiry after wit, in which due respect is had to a Letter concerning
Enthusiasm to my Lord . . . ,' by Mr. Wotton ; and in a third
piece entitled ' Reflections upon a Letter Concerning Enthusiasm to
my Lord ... In another letter to a Lord,' London, 1709, in 8vo.
A French translation of the ' Letter Concerning Enthusiasm,' by
Monsieur Samson, was printed at the Hague in 1708, in 8vo.
Monsieur Leibnitz also wrote some Remarks in French on the ' Letter
Concerning Enthusiasm,' which are published by Des Marizeaux in
the second volume of ' Reiueil de diverses Pieces sur la Philosophic, la
Religion Naturelle, 1'Histoire les Mathematiques,' &c., par Messieurs.
Leibnitz, Clarke, Newton et autresautheurs c61ebres printed at Amster-
xxvi. Life Sketch.
the Council, and which being well approved by him and others
to whom he showed it, my father made public, though without
his name or that of the person to whom it was addressed.
The Letter gave offence to some who thought he treated the
subject in too ludicrous a manner, considering the affinity
it bears to the most serious ones. But when we consider
the occasion on which it was written we shall see things in
another light ; for where he is pointing out ridicule as the most
proper and surest way to suppress such vain and idle delusions,
with what propriety could he himself have been serious. He
derides not religion. Let its sacred name be reverenced, but not
the false appearance of it. My father had perhaps greater
antipathy to enthusiasm than most persons, having seen many of
the fatal consequences attending this deception in some people
with whom he was particularly acquainted. He wrote a little
treatise upon the subject some years before the Letter of
Enthusiasm which he addressed to his brother, and which has
never been made public. The great freedom of thought expressed
in this and all his writings has given some people such a dislike
to him that they have not only questioned his regard for the
Church of England, but even his belief of revealed religion. But
to a considering person freedom of thought will never appear
dangerous to religion, for free thinking in its proper sense is the
examining into things carefully by the standard of unprejudiced
reason in order to form a judgment upon mature deliberation
and impartial inquiry. This far from staggering us will certainly
confirm us in our religion, whose truth always prevails when
tried by this test. Some men indeed who, having raised them
selves above the ignorance of the mere vulgar, conceited with
their imagined elevation, contemptuously look down upon the rest
of mankind as wandering in the paths of error, and though they
are really enemies to everything sacred would shelter themselves
under the appellation of free-thinkers. But is not such a superficial
examination under the specious pretence of free-thinking to
banish thought from the world ? In order to show my father's
dam in 1720." — Birch. Shaftesbury's own remarks upon the replies to
this treatise may be found in a letter dated May 5th, 1709, which is
one of those he addressed to a student in the University.
Life Sketch. xxvii.
sentiments on our religion, I shall quote a passage from the
treatise I mentioned where he speaks of himself and his brother,
with whom he had no reserve : " Being risen both of us pretty
late in the morning which was Sunday, we went (you know) to
church for the first time this New Year. Thither I never went
with truer zeal, in a better disposition or with wholesomer
reflections. And what satisfied me still the more, it was by
appointment that we were that day to receive the Sacrament
together, having had no opportunity of a long time. Here we
both joined in blessing that good Providence which had by
reason and education separated us from the impure and horrid
superstitions, monstrous enthusiasms, and wild fanaticisms of
those blasphemous visionaries we saw abounding in the world,
and which had given us on the contrary side such established
rites of worship as were so decent, chaste, innocent, pure ; and had
placed us in a religion and church where in respect of the
moderate party and far greater part the principle of charity
was really more extensive than in any Christian or Protestant
church besides in the world; where zeal was not frensy and
enthusiasm; prayer and devotion not rage and fits of loose
extravagance; religious discourses not cant and unintelligible
nonsense ; nor the character of a Saint resembling that of their
inspired and godly men or women leaders ; but where a good
and virtuous life, with a hearty endeavour of service to one's
country and to mankind, joined with a religious performance of
all sacred duties and a conformity with the established rites, was
enough to answer the highest character of religion, and where
all other pretences to gifts or supernatural endowments beyond
these moral and Christian perfections were justly suspected and
treated as villainy, cheat, imposture, and madness." My father
was very constant in his attendance at church and in receiving
the Communion when his asthma would permit. He had also a
great respect for many of the writings of our best Divines,
particularly those of Dr. Whichcote, since by his means two
volumes of sermons were published from copies, which had been
taken down in shorthand as that great man delivered them.
To return to the thread of my father's life in the year 1709,
he was married to Miss Jane Ewer, youngest daughter of
Thomas Ewer, Esq., of the Lee, in Hertfordshire, to whom he
xxviii. Life Sketch.
was related. A year or two afterwards, finding his health
still declining, he was advised to seek assistance from a warmer
climate. Before he left England he took leave by letter of
several of his acquaintances, and among that number of the Earl
of Oxford, who was then just promoted to that title. As this
letter is not in the usual strain of those addressed to Ministers of
State, I shall for that reason insert it.
" Reygate, May 29th, 1711.
" My Lord, — The honour you have done me in many kind
enquiries after my health, and the favour you have shown me
lately, in forwarding the only means I have left for my
recovery by trying the air of a warmer climate, obliges me ere I
leave England to return your Lordship my most humble thanks
and acknowledgments in this manner, since I am unable to do it
in a better.
"I might, perhaps, my lord, do injustice to myself , having had
no opportunity of late years to pay my particular respects to
you, if I should attempt any otherwise to compliment your
lordship on the late honours you have received, than by appealing
to the early acquaintance and strict correspondence I had once
the honour to maintain with you and your family, for which I had
been bred almost from my infancy to have the highest regard.
Your lordship well knows my principles and behaviour from the
first hour I engaged in any public concern, and with what zeal
I spent some years of my life in supporting your interest, which
I thought of greater moment to the public than my own or
family's could ever be. What the natural effects are of private
friendship so founded, and what the consequences of different
opinions intervening, your lordship, who is so good a judge of
men and things, can better resolve with yourself than I can
possibly suggest. And being so knowing in friends (of whom your
lordship has acquired so many), you can recollect how those ties
or obligations have been hitherto preserved towards you, and
whose friendships, affections and principles you may for the
future best depend upon in all circumstances and variations
public and private. For my own part, I shall say only, that I
very sincerely wish you all happiness, and can with no man living
congratulate more heartily, on what I account a real honour and
Life Sketch. xxix.
prosperity. Your conduct of the public will be the just earnest and
insurance of your greatness and power. And I shall then chiefly
congratulate with your Lordship on your merited honours and
advancement, when by the happy effects it appears evidently in
the service of what cause and for the advantage of what interest
they were acquired and employed. Had I been to wish by what
hands the public should have been served, the honour of the first
part (your Lordship well knows) had fallen to you long since.
If others from whom I least hoped have done greatly and as
became them, I hope, if possible, you will still exceed all they
have performed, and accomplish the great work so gloriously
begun and carried on for the rescue of liberty and the deliverance
of Europe and mankind. And in this presumption I cannot but
remain with the same zeal and sincerity as ever, my lord, &c."
My father set out for Naples in July, 1711, and pursuing
his journey through France, was obliged to pass through the
Duke of Berwick's camp, who at that time lay with the army
under his command encamped near the borders of Piedmont.
He was entertained by the Duke in the most friendly and polite
manner, and was by his care conducted safe to the Duke of
Savoy's dominions. He lived nearly two years after his arrival
at Naples1, dying there the 4th February (O.S.) 1712-13. The
only pieces which he finished after he came to Naples were the
Judgment of Hercules and the Letter concerning Design, which
last was first published in the edition of the Characteristics
of 1732, but till then unaccountably suppressed by his executors,
1 Rough Draft : " My father lived two years after he came to
Naples, which was a long time considering the severe illness he was
afflicted with and which nothing but the excellence of the air in Italy
and the uncommon care of my mother in attending him, could have
preserved so long." And again the Fourth Earl writes : " His life
would probably have been much longer if he had not worn it out by
great fatigues of body and mind, which was owing to his eager desire
after knowledge, as well to his zeal to serve his country. For he was
so intent upon pursuing his studies that he frequently spent not only
the whole day, but the great part of the night besides in severe
application, which confirmed the truth of Mr. Locke's observation on
him that the sword was too sharp for the scabbard."
xxx. Life Sketch.
though it was his express direction to have it printed. The rest
of his time he employed in ordering his writings for publication,
which he placed in the order they now stand. The several prints
then first interspersed in the work were all designed by himself,
and each device bears an exact affinity to the passage to which it
refers.1 That no mistake might be committed, he did not
leave to any other hand, even so much as the drudgery or
correcting the press. In the three volumes of the Characteristics
he completed the whole of his writings which he intended
should be made public,2 though some people have, however, in a
very ungenerous manner, without any application to his family,
or even their knowledge, published several of his letters,3 and
those too of a private nature, many of which were written in
so hasty and careless a manner, that he did not so much as take
copies of them. A little before his death he had laid a scheme
of writing a " Discourse on the Arts of Painting, Sculpture, &c,"
which, had he lived to have completed, would have been a very
1See letters of the year 1712, in this volume.
2 Shaftesbury's Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions, and
Times, was published at London in its first edition in 1711. It
consisted of the Inquiry Concerning Virtue, which was surreptitiously
issued in 1699; the Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, printed separately,
by himself, in 1 708 ; the Moralists : A Philosophical Rhapsody, which first
appeared in January, 1709; the Sensus Communis, an Essay upon the
Freedom of Wit and Humour, likewise printed in May of the same
year; the Soliloquy, or Advice to an Author, dated 1710; and the
Miscellaneous Reflections, the only treatise not published previously to
this collected edition of his works. The second and corrected edition,
here mentioned in the context, which included the Judgment of
Hercules, was not published until 1714, immediately after his death.
The third edition was published in 1723; the fourth edition in 1727 ;
the fifth edition, with the Letter Concerning Design, in 1732; the
excellent Baskerville edition in 1773; and a single volume of an
edition, undertaken by the Rev. William M. Hatch, in 1871. At the
present time, therefore, a new and complete edition of this celebrated
work is a desideratum.
3Toland's Letters from the late Earl of Shaftesbury to Robert
Molesworth, Esq., which were published in 1721, during the life time
of parties therein mentioned.
Life Sketch. xxxi.
pleasing and useful work ; but his death prevented his making
any great progress in it.
What has been here said may suffice for the characterising
of him, since what shall appear from the judgment of reason,
on the perusal of plain matters of fact, is far more likely to be
a proper one, than the too general method of working out a
character from the conceptions of a heated imagination.
THE PHILOSOPHICAL REGIMEN
(A2KHMATA).
NATURAL AFFECTION.
TTOTC ap, & "\Jsv~xr], ayaQvi, KOI a,7r\fj, KOL fjLia, KOI
rj, (j>avepa)T€pa. TOV TrepiKei/mevov crot crw/xaTO? ; "/every TTOTC
apa r>79 <j>i\r)TiKrjs ical arpeprjriKrjf &a$e'crea>9 [" Wilt thou then, my
soul, never be good and simple and one and naked, more
manifest than the body which surrounds thee ? Wilt thou
never enjoy an affectionate and contented disposition ?" — Marcus
Aurelius Antoninus, Meditations, Bk. X., § 1.]
What is it to have Natural Affection ? Not that which is
only towards relations, but towards all mankind ; to be truly
<J>i\dvOpa)Tro<s [a lover of men], neither to scoff, nor hate, nor be
impatient with them, nor abominate them, nor overlook them ;
and to pity in a manner and love those that are the greatest
miscreants, those that are most furious against thyself in
particular, and at the time when they are most furious ? — How
is it in a mother, or a nurse towards sickly children ? How
often is that seen in children themselves and in good-natured
people towards other creatures ? And how kindly are several
species of creatures entertained by us, so as that to use any of
these harshly and cruelly is ill looked upon, as, on the contrary,
to be kind and favourable towards them is recommending ?
What is more amiable than such affection ? And is it not most
of all amiable towards men ? When is it, therefore, that thou
shalt become, as it were, a common father of mankind ? So as
to say, whatever wretch or whatever number of such thou seest,
whether of the most prosperous or most dejected, whether of
one country or another, whether of the simplest or of those
that are thought wise : " These are they whom, though they have
no care of themselves; no, none amongst them truly affected
or concerned for them; though they are animated against one
c
2 The Philosophical Regimen.
another, and can least of all endure one that would take this care
of them ; yet these are they whom I make to be my care and
charge ; whom I foster and do good to, against their wills, and
shall ever do so, as long as they are men, and I am of
their kind." 1
When shall this happy disposition be fixed, that I may feel
it perpetually, as now but seldom ? When shall I be entirely
thus affected and feel this as my part grown natural to me ? It
shall then be, when thou no longer seekest for anything they
seek, when thou no longer wantest anything from them, or
canst be worked by anything that may happen to thee from
them. In short, it is then only that thou canst truly love them,
when thou expectest neither thy good nor thy ill from them.
Whilst that expectation is, we must of necessity be jealous of and
suspect them, flatter and court them, be one while in great
familiarity with them, at another time in open enmity, to-day
in favour, to-morrow in disgrace, this moment warm and
affectionate, the next, cold and indifferent, ashamed of what we
just before were proud, and sick of those we before so highly
relished. Let this therefore be remembered, when we see the
children play and content, when they have their nuts and their
apples to divide, and are busied about their childish affairs. We
look upon them with pleasure and are kind to them, without
anger, without concern, always benign, gentle and mild towards
them, with sincere affection and love; nor are we provoked by
them, if fro ward or unruly towards us, but doing what is
necessary to amend the fault, we pass it by ; never imagining
ourselves hurt, never meditating revenge against the child though
he were ever so perverse, but thinking only how to cure and set
him aright. And by virtue of what is it that all this is per
formed ? — By this. Because the nuts and apples do not concern
us; because those things which they esteem as children we
despise as men; and because it is never considered what the
children say of us amongst themselves ; whether they are
angry or pleased, whether they thank us for our pains, or so
much as think of us or remember us ; but whether this that we
1 Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto. — Terence, Heaut.,
Act I., line 25.
Natural Affection. 3
do be for the children's good, be fit or not fit in their case ; and
whether this be done with the due skill of one who has the care
and charge of children. But, if he who has the charge should
want to play himself, if he should fall in love with the apples
and nuts, and think it his good to have a name amongst the
children, where would his authority be ? And what else must
follow, but that from the moment this begins, he must begin also
to hate and torment the children, and no longer be their tutor,
but their tyrant ? Consider then as to mankind. Thou wouldst
love men. But in what way is this possible ? They love riches,
they love pleasure, they love honour, preferments, power ; there
fore, they will have it for themselves. Give it them, be
unconcerned, and thus thou mayst love them and take care of
them. But thou wilt be concerned thyself. Thou must have
thy share. Go in, then, and fight for it ; make court, solicit, and
lay wait ; digest repulses if thou canst ; bear with thy rivals and
competitors, and be patient when others carry it from thee ; but
expect not any more to stand in that other station towards
mankind. Think not any more of loving these as men, for true
affection cannot be except where true liberty is.
To have natural affection is to affect according to nature or
the design and will of nature. For without respect to a design
and will of nature, nothing can be said to affect naturally, or
have natural affection. Is it natural for a parent to love the
offspring, or for a creature of any kind to affect more particularly
his own species or kind ? If this be called natural, what else is
understood but that the preservation and support of such a
certain species is designed by nature, after this manner, and by
these means ? This therefore is the design and will of nature, that
by the natural and good affection of creatures towards their own
species the species should be preserved and be prosperous. Now
either this design of nature is an excellent wise and good design,
and it is my good to follow it, or otherwise what have I to do
but to throw off this that is called natural affection and live
after some other rule ? If there be a better rule, let us see what
that is, let us see how it is with men that lose these natural
affections ; how it is even with beasts and the common creatures.
Which are the happiest, or in the best state, those that live
orderly and obey these affections, or those that are hardened
4 The Philosophical Regimen.
against nature and have all of this kind unnatural and in dis
order ? Of this there has been enough said elsewhere. Nor is
anything more evidently demonstratable than this, that the only
means and rule of happiness (even amongst these other creatures,
as far as they are capable of happiness) is to follow nature, and
whether knowingly or unknowingly, to act in pursuance of this
design, and under the power of such affections as these.
Thus much as to all human and other creatures, being either
wholly irrational, or considered only in such a use of reason as
is common ; but not such as contemplates nature, and considers
of the whole ; what it is ; how governed ; by what laws ;
whether it be one and simple, fixed and constant, equal to itself,
knowing, wise and good. Let us consider, therefore, how the
matter stands with a creature who is after this other manner
and in this higher degree, rational.
Either this which we call natural affection and this that
we have shown of the order of nature in particular, is
notwithstanding wholly and solely from chance, and not
properly designed; or, it is from a limited and imperfect
design ; or, it is from an all-powerful, wise and perfect design.
If the first or second be supposed we must consider other
matters, and how either of these opinions can stand ; but if the
latter be allowed it will follow that besides that relation to
a species, there is a further relation which every creature has,
viz., to the whole of things as administered by that supreme will
or law which regulates all things according to the highest good.
If it be thus, it follows that a creature who is in that higher
degree rational, and can consider the good of the whole, and
consider himself as related to the whole, must withal consider
himself as under an obligation to the interest and good of the
whole, preferably to the interest of his private species : and this
is the ground of a new and superior affection. Now if it has
been made the good and happiness even of unknowing and
irrational creatures to follow that private and inferior affection
which is only towards a species and part of the whole, how can
it but be much more the good of every knowing and rational
creature to live according to that affection which is the highest
and most perfect ? Nature has made this the reward of every
creature, even unknowingly and unconsciously pursuing her
Natural Affection. 5
intention and design; that by this very pursuit the creature
preserves itself in its most perfect state. And shall the same
nature and sovereign wisdom of the whole have made it less the
happiness and good of a knowing and rational creature, to have
a right and deserving affection towards nature and the whole ?
What is it, therefore, that we call a right and a deserving
affection ? Let us consider what this is, and to what this
supposed relation, if it be true, obliges us.
If a father be in danger of his life, if his safety or interest
call for it, we are to expose ourselves willingly. Labour,
pain, and even death (if necessary) are to be suffered without
murmuring, without complaining, cheerfully, generously. This
is according to nature. This is natural affection. This, if it
be lost or wanting in any creature, the creature is vile,
degenerate, imperfect, wretched.
If friends are in danger, and their interest call for it, our
part also is to expose ourselves freely and voluntarily : if our
city or country, much more. These are the relations, these the
affections. Now, let us see how this is elsewhere and in another
degree.
If there be a supreme parent, a common father of men and
all other beings, and if all things happen according to the will
of this first parent, it follows that everything is to be kindly
and well accepted ; no murmuring, no complaining. If all things
in the universe are for the good of one another, all united and
conspiring to one end, all alike subject to one wise and perfect
rule, all alike produced from one original and fountain : it
follows that I must in a certain manner be reconciled to all
things, love all things, and absolutely hate or abhor nothing
whatsoever that has being in the world. If the universe be as
one city, and the laws of that city perfect and just, it follows
that whatsoever happens, according to the laws of that city,
must be accepted and esteemed. And since there is nothing but
what is according to those laws, there is nothing that happens
but what I ought highly to applaud, and to accompany with my
mind and sincerest affection. And if I do otherwise I am
impious, unjust, unnatural, ungrateful, an apostate from reason,
and vicious in a higher order and degree.
Here, then, is that new relation. Here it is that that other
6 The Philosophical Regimen.
affection arises, and this is the natural affection of a rational
creature, capable of knowing nature and of considering the good
and interest of the whole.
Now, how is this affection preserved ? How made consistent
with those other affections, or rather those others with this ? If
every other affection of that lower order (however natural any
such may be) be not entirely subordinate to this superior
affection, this is wrong. If a relation be beloved; if a friend;
if it be thy city, thy native country; if all this be not freely,
willingly, readily, resigned, what is this but disobedience? What
else but this can be called apostacy? If there be any reluctancy,
any murmuring or grieving, any abhorrence, any aversion, what
is this but rebellion, impiety, resistance ?
Thus are all other affections to be subdued. This is the
new order, the new economy which belongs to another degree.
This is the province of the truly wise man who is conscious of
things human and divine : to learn how to submit all of his
affections to the rule and government of the whole; how to
accompany with his whole mind that supreme and perfect mind
and reason of the universe. This is to live according to Nature,
to follow Nature, and to own and obey Deity. If I have friends,
I act the part of a friend ; if I am a father, the part of a father.
If I have a city or country, I study its good and interest; I
cherish it as I ought; I hazard myself and do all for it that in
me lies. If I must no longer be a father ; if children or friends
are taken from me ; if He who gave me a country and a nation
take it back, and either by war or any other means cause it to
cease or perish, all is well. I am free and unconcerned, so that
I have done my part for my country; so that I have not been
wanting to my friend ; so that I have acted the part of a father.
But shall I not bemoan my child ? Shall I be thus indifferent
and unconcerned ? Shall I have no more natural affection ?
Wretch ! consider what it is thou callest natural affection. In
what way canst thou have natural affection whilst this thou
callest so is still retained ? In what way freely and readily
resign both children and family when any higher duty calls or
thy country is to be served ? In what way resign alike country,
children, mankind and all else in this world when He who placed
thee calls thee from hence ? In what way canst thou accompany
Natural Affection. 7
Him, or applaud all that He does? How act or suffer as
becomes thee, as becomes a man, and one that is free, generous,
disinterested ? How can this be whilst thou retainest this other-
sort of affection ? Now if it be thus even with respect to such
subjects as these, what must it be towards those other matters
such as riches, honours and the rest ? What must that degene
racy be which detains us by any affections towards things of
such inferior kind ?
Be it so. But where is the good or happiness of having this
natural affection ? Where is the ill of having that which is
falsely called so ? This it is. If thy affection be such either
towards friends, relations, countrymen, or whatever else is
engaging or delightful, it must happen that when anything here
succeeds amiss thou must be at a loss and disturbed within thy
self, wholly dissatisfied with Providence and the order of things,
impatient, angry, full of complaint, bitterness, vexation, discon
tent. Nor is this any more consistent with true affection than
with happiness. For in what way can the affections of such a
one be preserved in due order ? in what way preserve a mind in
the midst of such convulsions and disorder ? and how maintain
those subordinate affections in their several degrees, if this
supreme affection be thus shaken and overturned ? On the other
hand, if we stand affected towards these things as we ought, if
our affections are such as can immediately give way and without
struggle or hindrance readily close with what happens ever so
contrary, if our will be in conformity to the supreme will, and
ready to receive whatever happens and is appointed : this only
can afford us happiness and content; bestow peace, serenity,
calm ; make us to live in friendship with men and with due
acknowledgment and reverence and piety towards God. Nor
can those several relations, offices, duties, parts, be any otherwise
preserved but after this manner. It is in vain to think of being
virtuous, just, or pious but upon this foundation. It is on this
that integrity, faith, honour, generosity, magnanimity, and every
thing of that kind depends. Now, how is it that this is accom
plished ? in what way can we arrive at this natural affection ?
in what way affect and disaffect, as we ought to do, and
according to nature ?
Of things that are, some are of our own power and juris-
8 The Philosophical Regimen.
diction : some not. x Tow ovrcov ra yueV ea-riv e</>' %/u.iv, TO. <$e owe
e<f> ^/uuv, &c. This is all, this is the whole concern, and nothing
but this. Here all depends ; here the labour, pains, employment,
and this is the sum of all. Kara^/ooV^crf? ru>v OVK ecf> fjjjilv.
[" Despise the things which are not within our power." — Epict.
Ench., c. xix., § 2.]
Remember, therefore, henceforward not to think any more
of natural affection in the imperfect and vulgar sense, but
according to the just sense and meaning of the word and what
it imports.
Is my appetition,* seeking, aversation, right and natural 1
am I not frustrated ? am I not at a loss, hindered, disturbed ?
do I affect safely, on sure ground, and with certainty of success?
Is it not merely chance that has made me hitherto prosperous in
my desire, aim and wish ? and is it not merely that and nothing
else, which now at this time is the occasion of my present ease
and satisfaction? How is it that I am affected towards a change
in any of these outward circumstances ? how towards the con
clusion of all and the finishing of my part ? how towards the
loss of friends, companions, relations, children, country ? Is it
here that I can prove my affection natural ? Can nothing of this
kind separate me from nature, or hinder me from joining with it
and accompanying it ? Is it no longer in the power of any chance
whatsoever to raise any contrary affection or to interrupt the
course of that which carries me with the whole of things and
makes me to be unanimous with Deity ? If it be otherwise, it is
in vain to plead nature and say, I lament and grieve ; but I am
natural. This is the part of a father. — Wretch ! consider what
art thou thyself and whence? where dost thou inhabit? in whose
city ? under what administration ? whence dost thou draw thy
breath ? at whose will and by whose donation has thou received
this being, and art now at this moment sustained? Dost thou
not consider that by thus deserting Him, by thus opposing and
(as much as in thee lies) impugning and destroying His rule and
administration, thou art not only far from being (as thou
sayest) a father; but art thyself, an unnatural son, an ill-subject,
an ill-creature ? What hast thou to do with nature ? what
1 Epictetus, Enchiridion, c. i., § 1. * opegts, 6pp.r), €KK\HTIS.
Natural Affection. 9
pretence of being natural ? What other relation, what part dost
thou tell us of, after such a part as this, after having thrown off
this relation, this highest duty and obligation, upon which the
rest depends ? — But all other creatures are thus affected towards
their young. — And are all other creatures therefore sensible of
that other relation ? were they made to consider nature as thou
dost ? were they brought into the world to contemplate the order
of it and recognise the author and supreme, to join themselves to
him, and assist in his administration and rule ? were they made
free, unhinderable, invincible, irrefragable, as to that inward
part ? Had they any means or natural accommodations, instruc
tions, or faculties given them towards justice, faith, piety,
magnanimity ? If not ; what should they follow but that other
affection, which with respect to them is natural ? But if thou
also wouldst act thus and still be natural, divest thyself in the
first place, of that other part ; be no longer a man ; and then we
will grant it, that thou dost act naturally, and according to
thy constitution and end.
All affection carries with it an inclining or declining, so
that if this inclining and declining be right and natural, the
affection is right and natural; else not. If all that nature
produces be natural, i.e., orderly and good, to incline or decline
contrary to nature, or to what nature produces, must (with
respect to the particular mind) be unnatural and ill. But to
repine, to grieve, to be mean, or lament, is to decline contrary
to nature, and is therefore unnatural affection.
Every affection is natural which affects the preservation and
good of that which nature has assigned to it. Thus the natural
affection of a part or member is to work for the preservation of
the body. Thus the natural affection of a father is to love his
children. Thus the natural affection of a man, a rational
creature and citizen of the universe, is to love whatsoever happens
according to those laws by which the universe is upheld. See
how duly these parts are preserved. Does not the finger or
hand, of its own accord, carefully decline every touch that may
be hurtful ; but when the head is in danger, does it not as readily
expose itself of its own accord, and without waiting the order
or dictate of the mind ? Is not the care of the whole body and
private person set aside when the part or duty of a parent calls ?
10 The Philosophical Regimen.
Are not relations, children, and all of this kind forgotten when
the part of a citizen comes on ? How is it that we honour and
praise the severity of those Romans, deaf to all entreaties,
inflexible, immovable, and with an equal temper and unaltered
countenance, performing the part of the magistrate in the
sentence and execution of their beloved children ?
And is this part thus readily found and thus preserved and
obeyed everywhere else in nature, and shall it only be wanting
towards nature itself ? If therefore the highest and most
natural part be that which is towards nature, consider what it is
to be wanting in due affection here, and for the sake of a
member, a body, children, friends, city, or anything of this kind,
to be divided from nature, to accuse nature, and to disaffect that
which the supreme and sovereign will decrees for the good and
preservation of the whole.
Either nature which has given the several subjects of
affection, is itself a subject of affection to a rational creature
capable of considering nature, or it is not so. If it be not so, we
can no longer say we affect any duty or part because assigned to
us by nature ; and thus nothing can be properly called natural.
If, on the contrary, I adhere to that which is natural, and for
that reason because it is natural, then nature is to me a subject
of affection. If nature be at all a subject, what can it be but
the highest subject ? If it be the highest subject, then, to be
wanting in affection towards it, is to be most of all unnatural.
Now everything that happens is from the same nature (the
nature of the whole), and, therefore, to be dissatisfied with what
happens, is to be dissatisfied with nature. Now to grieve,
bemoan, and repine is to be dissatisfied with what happens and
to throw off our affection to nature. Therefore to affect any
thing, so as on account of it, to grieve, bemoan, or repine, must
of necessity be wrong and unnatural affection.
To consider of. natural affection, and is it to examine and
measure the affection due to every particular, as nature has
appointed ? What is the subject ? Is it (for example) a finger,
or a hand ? Preserve it, cherish it as a member. But if the
whole body come in question, expose it freely, slight it, abandon
it, give it up ; for, this is due to the interest of the whole. Thus
if I have friends, relations, children, city, I prize and cherish
Natural Affection. 11
these. In what way ? As given me by nature, thus to love and
to take care of. But if the interest of nature call, I forsake
everything else and follow nature, without murmuring, without
complaint. In what way, therefore, shall I love my children or
relations ? As strongly and affectionately as is possible for me
to love them, but so as that nature may be accused ; so as that,
whatever happens, I may still adhere to nature and accept and
embrace whatsoever nature sends. This is the foundation. This
is all. Consider this, and it will be easy to find the true measure
of all affection, and what discipline and rules must be followed
to reduce our affection to nature and to affect as becomes a
rational creature.
A mind that refuses its consent to what is acted in the
whole and for the good of the whole, is the same as a hand that
should refuse to act for the body. What is a hand ? A single
part made for the use and convenience of the body. What am
I ? A man. But how a man ? As an Athenian ? As a Roman ?
As a European ? And is this all ? No, but as a citizen of the
world. This is to be a man. This the nature of man signifies.
How is it then that I preserve the part of a man ? How am I a
Roman ? — when I prefer the interest of Rome. How a man ? —
when I prefer the interest of the world. Now in what way
prefer the interest of the world and yet be angry or dissatisfied
at what happens in the world ? Consider, therefore, what is it
that makes me averse to anything of this kind ? What is the
occasion of reluctancy ? For whatever affection this be, whether
towards a body, or towards friends, or towards a son, or towards
a city, this is that which makes me be unnatural ; this, in me,
is the opposite to natural affection.
Love thy friends, relations, companions, but thy country
better. Love thy country as thou art an Englishman, but thy
country as a man much better. Who can be said to love his
country who grieves at what is for its good and what is
necessary for its establishment and safety ? Now consider !
Hast thou any country as a man or not ? Are the laws of that
country wise and just ? Is the public good, and welfare aimed at
and successfully carried on ? Is there order, rule, intelligence and
a mind ? If so, what is that happens, or can happen, but accord
ing to that wise economy and perfect will ? Now if that economy
12 The Philosophical Regimen.
were changed or interrupted; if that will were controlled or
disobeyed ; all must perish, and that first and ancient common
wealth be overturned and destroyed. Therefore, whatsoever
happens in the economy of the whole is necessary for the happi
ness, perfection, and establishment of the whole, that it should
have been ; and to have annulled this (if it had been possible)
must have been to have annulled and made void that economy of
the whole by which its happiness and perfection are maintained.
Now see of what a nature it is to repine at anything that
happens. What is the loss that thus affects ? Is it of a limb ?
wilt thou not give it up, rot? oAot? ? Is it of thy relations ? wilt
thou not remember thy other relation ? Is it of thy country ?
wilt thou not remember another country, state, polity, govern
ment, law ?
Therefore remember on any approaching misfortune or
calamity to say : " this is for the good of my country ; this is
according to the constitution, law, custom, of my native
country." If such a one be to die : " it is the laws of my country
that decree it." If such a one fail and prove vicious : " the same
laws have ordered it so." If this which I commonly call my
country be sinking ; what is this still but " the laws of my real
country." See therefore how it is thou cherishest, lovest,
embracest those laws, and accordingly thou mayest say thou
either hast or wantest Natural Affection.
DEITY.
Ei/ orol /uiev T*? Kocrfjios v(j)isTa(T0ai fivvarai, ev Se TO> TravT\
aKo<r/uLia ; [" Can a certain order subsist in thee, and disorder in
the All 1 "—Mar. Awrd.t Med., Bk. IV., § 27].
The elements are combined, united, and have a mutual
dependence one upon another. All things in this world are
united, for as the branch is united and is as one with the tree,
so is the tree with the earth, air, and water which feed it, and
with the flies, worms, and insects which it feeds. For these
are made to it, and as much as the mould is fitted to the tree,
as much as the strong and upright trunk of the oak or elm is
fitted to the twining and clinging branches of the vine or ivy,
so much are the leaves, the seeds, the fruits of these trees fitted
to other animals, and they, again, to one another. All hold to
one stock. Go farther : and view the system of the bigger
world. See the mutual dependence, the relation of one thing
to another; the sun to the earth; the earth and planets to
the sun ; the order, symmetry, regularity, union, and coherence
of the whole.
It follows, therefore, that as the plant or tree has a nature,
the world or universe must have a nature, and here arises the
question, What sort of a nature should this be ? There are in
this world three sorts : a vegetative, a sensitive, and a rational.
Should the nature of the universe, which contains and brings
forth all other natures, be itself merely vegetative and plastic,
like that of a tree or of a foetus ? or, should it be only a degree
further, and be sensitive, as an animal ? or should it be yet
further, and be rational, but imperfectly so, as man ? Or, if this
seem still utterly mean and absurd, should not the nature of the
universe, which exhibits reason in all that we see ; which
practises reason by a consummate art and prudence in the
organisation and structure of things ; and (what is more) which
produces principles of reason and raises up intelligences and
perceptions of several degrees in the beings that are but of a
13
14 The Philosophical Regimen.
moment's duration, that start out of it, as it were, and sink into
it immediately ; should not this sovereign nature of the whole
be a principle itself of much greater understanding and capacity
than any else ? Should not the most extensive sight or know
ledge with which we are acquainted and the highest wisdom
which we admire, be as nothing in comparison with that original
one from whom all is derived ? And should not that affection,
which we see in all natures towards their offspring and produc
tions, towards what is more remotely united to them, or what
is strictly any part of themselves, be much inferior to that
affection of the Supreme Nature towards all and to what is
produced and administered by it, as everything is ? And what is
this, in one word, but that God is ; that He is one and simple,
infinitely wise and perfectly good ?
Things are finite or infinite. If infinite, that which we call
the whole is infinite ; if finite, still that which exists is the whole.
But next of what kind or nature is this whole ? Is it like
that of a stone or of scattered pieces of sand ? Then that had
remained for ever its nature, and it could never have given rise to
other natures or principles that unite and conspire together, as
plants, vegetables, animal-bodies and the like. Is it, therefore,
only a vegetative nature ? Then that had remained its nature ;
it might have flourished and grown and thriven as those other
natures, and might have borne its fruit and varied itself a
thousand ways. But in what way could such a nature have pro
duced reason ? In what way could it bring perception out of itself
if it were not in itself ? Therefore the nature of the universe
is intelligent. Therefore, says one, there is indeed intelligence
in things, or in the nature of things, and as eternally belonging
to them. But the whole, says he, is not united as you suppose.
So that there is not, therefore, one, intelligence. Let us hear,
then. Are not the small fibres of this root conspiring together
and united ? They are ; but, with what ? With the plant ; and
the plant with what ? With the earth and other plants. And
the earth and other plants with what ? With air, water, animals
and other things around ; the animals themselves with one
another and the elements in which they live and to which they
are fitted, as either by wings for the air, by fins for the water, and
other things of that kind. In short, all these conspire together,
Deity. . 15
and so all other things, whatever they may be, in this world.
And is it not the same with the world itself in respect of the sun
and the planets ? How then ? Is there beyond this anything
or nothing ? If nothing, then is this the whole, and then the
whole is as one and has one nature. But there is more beyond
this. — Undoubtedly there is so. And shall that and this have
no relation nor mutual dependence ? Shall not the coherence
and union be the same, to the infinite ? Or shall we come at last
to something in the whole which has no relation to the rest of
things and is independent ? It remains, therefore, that all
things cohere and conspire; all things are in one, and are
comprehended in the nature of the universe. This nature is
either merely vegetative, and then it could have produced only
things of the same species ; or if there be in the universe beings
of another kind, that is to say, such as have perception and
intelligence, by what should they be produced unless by a like
nature ? But there is no other nature to produce anything except
the nature of the universe ; therefore the nature of the universe
is intelligent, and therefore there is a universal intelligent and
provident principle.
If it be not yielded that the universe is one, or has one
nature, so as to conspire together and to one end, it will not be
denied, however, that this is proper to the stalk of grass. If
the stalk of grass has it, then (by what has been said before)
the whole earth has it, and not only the earth, but the whole
system of the bigger world, as far as we know of anything.
Either, therefore, this system, with all that exists besides, holds
together, is still one whole, and is united ; or (what is strange to
imagine), though there be such perfect coherence in this apparent
whole, yet there is incoherence in that great whole, and in what
remains besides of things. If the latter, there are no other such
worlds, and what is besides is disorder and confusion; or if
there are such worlds, they are independent. If it be the first,
it will still remain that this world is one and must (as has been
shown) be intelligent. For either it has its intelligence else
where, and then there is elsewhere in the universe a principle on
which this world depends; or, it had it from itself, and then it
was eternally a principle of intelligence to itself : since nothing
can be more certain than that what is intelligent cannot be
16 The Philosophical Regimen.
produced out of what is not intelligent, and that what was never
produced but was eternal, must remain eternal. Accordingly
it will still remain as to this world, that in as far as it has
a nature by which it is one and united as a plant or animal body
(this nature being utterly different from disorder and confusion)
and in as far as it has sense, perception, and intelligence (which
if it have not received from a principle of that kind it must be a
principle of that kind itself), it must be said that it has a nature
or soul not merely vegetative, but knowing and intelligent. Hence
there is in this respect a supreme eternal mind or intelligent
principle belonging to this whole ; and this is Deity.
If there are more such worlds, and independent of one
another, they are still so many intelligences, and must be eternal
principles of that kind. But since it is unreasonable and
unaccountable thus to multiply principles, as, for instance, to
say that of the motion that is in the world, there should not be
one and the same principle, but several ; so with respect to what
is intelligent, it must be unreasonable to think that there is any
more than one common principle of intelligence, or that there
should be intelligences and thinking beings of several kinds
produced anywhere by one such principle, and that there should
not be one common one to all of that kind. Either the whole,
therefore, is not united like this which we see, and then, however,
there must be either one intelligent eternal principle or several
such ; or else the whole or infinite of things is united and is
one, and then it follows that there is one common principle of
intelligence and wisdom — one eternal and infinite mind.
Either this that we see is order, proportion, harmony, or it
is not so. If this be not so, and if neither the frame of the
heavens nor the body of man demonstrate order, what else is
order ? If it be order, and consequently of quite a different
nature from disorder, then how could that which was of quite
a different nature and even its contrary, have produced it ? If
it never was produced by disorder, then it must be a principle in
things, or be proper and natural to things. If it be natural for
some things to correspond and unite, then surely to all things.
Or say why natural to some things, if not as well to all ? If to
all things, then all things are united and have one nature. If
there be a nature of the whole, it must be a nature more perfect
Deity. 17
than that of particulars contained in the whole ; and if so, it is a
wise and intelligent nature. If so then, it must order everything
for its own good, and since that which is best for the universe is
both the wisest and justest, it follows that the supreme nature is
perfectly wise and just.
All things stand together or exist together by one necessity,
one reason, one law : therefore there is one nature of all things,
or common to all. Nothing is out of the whole, nor nothing
happens but according to the laws of the whole. Now every
particular nature certainly and constantty produces what is
good to itself, unless something foreign molest and hinder it,
either by overpowering and corrupting it within, or by violence
from without. Thus nature in the patient struggles to the last
and strives to throw off the distemper. Thus even in plants and
seeds every particular nature thrives and attains its perfection
if nothing from without obstruct and if nothing foreign to its
nature has already impaired and wounded it; and even then it
does its utmost to redeem itself. What are all weaknesses, distor
tions, sicknesses, imperfect births and seeming contradictions or
crossnesses of nature, but merely this ? And how ignorant must one
be of all natural operations who thinks that any of these things
happen by a miscarriage of the particular nature, and not by the
force of some foreign nature that overpowers it ? Thus, there
fore, every nature is constantly and never-failingly true to
itself, and certain to produce only what is good to itself and to
its own right state. And if every particular nature do this, shall
not the nature of the whole do it ? or shall that alone miscarry
and fail ? or is there anything foreign that shall do violence to
it, or force it out of its way ? If not, then all that it produces is
for its own good, the good of all in general; and that which is for
the good of all in general is just and good. If so, then rest
satisfied, and not only rest satisfied, but be pleased and rejoiced
with what happens, knowing from whence it comes and to what
it contributes.
To sympathize, what is it ? — To feel together, or be united
in one sense or feeling. — The fibres of the plant sympathize, the
members of the animal sympathize, and do not the heavenly
bodies sympathize ? Why not ? — Because we are not conscious
of this feeling. — No more are we conscious of the feeling or
D
18 The Philosophical Regimen.
sympathizing of the plant ; neither can we be conscious of any
other in the world besides that of our own. If, however, it be
true that these others sympathize, then the world and the
heavenly bodies (more united and more harmoniously conspiring
together than either the plant or animal body) must also
sympathize. If there be a sympathizing of the whole, there is
one perception, one intelligence of the whole. If that, then all
things are perceived by that intelligence. If so, then there is
one all-knowing and all-intelligent nature.
This we know. We ourselves have a mind, because we are
conscious of it. But we cannot be conscious of any other mind,
or that there is any such thing as a mind besides our own.
If, therefore, we will believe in no other mind, there is an
end, and we can go 110 further. If we presume or believe there
is anywhere a mind out of ourselves, or that there are anywhere
perceptions, intelligences, or natures such as perceive and act ;
by what is it are we induced to believe this ? Is it only because
we speak and converse with such ? If so, then we cannot speak
and converse but with our own kind, nor believe any such thing
but in our own kind ; so there is an end, and we can go no
further. But if we can have cause to believe it from any other
grounds, then what is it that is sufficient to make us believe of
anything that it perceives and acts ? It must be this, or
nothing : When there is a consent and harmony of parts, a
regular conduct for the good of the whole, a steady management
suitable to one end and design. Now, here the question arises.
The system of things we see, and with it the whole of things,
is thus, or it is not thus. If it be thus, it bears the marks and
has a mind. If it be not thus, show in what it is otherwise,
and it will appear either that the objection, whatever it
be, is from gross inequality and partiality, by referring all
things to ourselves, and to the good or interest of one
small and inconsiderable part of things; or, that it is mere
ignorance, the same as his who, being ignorant in anatomy,
would find fault with the glands, as useless and superfluous,
or with the pores, as inconvenient and the occasion of receiving
harm.
Where the principle or cause is chance the product and
effect must be disorder and madness. Where the cause is design
Deity. 19
and a mind, the effects must be order and harmony. Which of
these is the case ?
If there be an economy of the whole and a mind, is it such
as that thou shouldst expect to see it, as thou seest a man, for
example ? — Certainly not. What is it, then, that thou wouldst see
to satisfy thee of this mind ? — the effects of such a mind. And
what must those be ? — What else but order, agreement, sympathy,
unity, subserviency of inferior things to superior, proper affec
tions of subjects making them to operate correspondingly
towards a general good, a conversion of everything into use,
a renovation of all things by changes and successions; nothing
idle, nothing vacant, nothing superfluous, nothing abrupt. See,
therefore, if all be not thus, and whether it be not ignorance and
short-sightedness, or an ill-temper and wrong affection, which
makes things to appear otherwise.
Yesterday thou wert entertained with the contemplation of
several natural things. The order of the heavens was wise and
wonderful ; the anatomy of man most complete and perfect. It
was a wonder with thee how the orbs should be preserved and
steadily hold those courses; how the wisest Providence could
have contrived so well for the support of such a body as
thy own. These were thy thoughts yesterday. To-day it was
an earthquake; or not so much, a storm only that destroyed some
corn ; a slight infection of the air which hurt some cattle, or
which affected thyself. And what follows ? Why Providence is
arraigned. The world is become a new thing, all is wrong ; all is
disorder. But was not all this owned possible, and even natural,
but yesterday ? — It was. — Which is it, then, that is wrong and
disordered ? the world, or thyself ? What is this but temper ?
View the heavens. See the vast design, the mighty revolu
tions that are performed. Think, in the midst of this ocean of
being, what the earth and a little part of its surface is; and what
a few animals are, which there have being. Embrace, as it were,
with thy imagination all those spacious orbs, and place thyself
in the midst of the Divine architecture. Consider other orders
of beings, other schemes, other designs, other executions, other
faces of things, other respects, other proportions and harmony.
Be deep in this imagination and feeling, so as to enter into what
is done, so as to admire that grace and majesty of things so great
20 The Philosophical Regimen.
and noble, and so as to accompany with thy mind that order, and
those concurrent interests of things glorious and immense. For
here, surely, if anywhere, there is majesty, beauty and glory.
Bring thyself as oft as thou canst into this sense and apprehen
sion ; not like the children, admiring only what belongs to their
play; but considering and admiring what is chiefly beautiful
splendid and great in things. And now, in this disposition, and
in this situation of mind, see if for a cut-finger, or what is all
one, for the distemper and ails of a few animals, thou canst
accuse the universe.
That the Deity is present with all things, knows all things,
and is provident over all. — Where is the difficulty of this ? How
is this hard of conception ? Could a plant or tree reason, and
were to answer to the question how it was possible for it to
perceive the approach or neighbourhood of some other fellow-
plant, it would answer by the touch. But what if not touched,
how then ? It were impossible it should know anything.
Thus the plant, and though I should again and again aver
that without touching the leaves or boughs of another plant it
could have notice of their motions and feel, as it were, when
they were agitated, and how ; this in all likelihood would be a
paradox till the sense of hearing was added. But this being
added, let us again ask in what way a grove, being placed at a
distance from it, the trees could be perceived in their situation,
distance from one another, in their different shapes, growths, as
also in their very healths, sicknesses, age and youth, by any
other notion than that which arises from a perceptible alteration
of figure ? Would not this be a new and yet greater paradox ?
I perceive yonder, afar off, that the leaf of that tree is withering
and in decay. Does it seem shattered or broken ? No, but as
to shape and fashion perfectly entire. What is it then that
gives the intimation ? Something from the surface. What
something ? Is it rough or smooth, even or uneven ? Does
there anything grow upon the surface ? Are they regular
figures or irregular — triangles, globules, lines ? I know not.
What are they, then ? Colours.
This to the plant must be unintelligible, and not only
unintelligible but (if the plant be not a wise plant) incredible.
But how is it with thyself ? Wilt thou be as dull and stupid
Deity. 21
as that plant would be, and reason in the same manner ?
Is there nothing in the universe beyond hearing and sight,
because thy wretched body has nothing better than an ear and
eye ? But why need I mention the Deity, who is infinite ?
Suppose merely that creature of His, the sun, to be intelligent,
to what distances does he convey himself ? how noble a part of
the universe receives influence from him ? What are the earth
and other planets who perpetually receive from him both light
and heat ? Now what should the sense of such a creature be
(if such a one I may call a creature) compared with this earthly
kind ? this that is confined to such wretched and perishing
bodies ? this that is admitted and supported by such poor organs
in common to us with other fellow-animals ? Yet this still
supposes something exterior, whereas, with respect to the Deity,
what is there or can there be exterior ? Does not He contain
all within Himself. Is there anything foreign to the universe ?
anything beyond the extent of that mind which resides in it ?
Shall all other things be thus disposed and governed by it ; and
shall that which is of the same nature and kind have no communi
cation with it ? Shall all other motion be subordinate ; and shall
the motions of minds, shall thoughts, sentiments, or whatsoever
is of that kind, be independent, separated, and hid ?
Remember, therefore, in what a Presence thou actest, and
instead of an assembly of men, instead of Greece, instead of
Rome, instead of thy city, friends, country, instead of a full
concourse (if it were possible) both of moderns and ancients ;
remember that One, who is more than all. Thus contemplating
Him, how is it possible thou shouldst either act or think any
thing mean, abject, or servile ?
Which is more shameful ? to think of Providence as those
do who count themselves naturalists ; or thinking of Providence
as thou dost, to be no otherwise affected than as thou art ?
Which of the two is the more absurd ? to have the faith of
Epicurus, and believe in atoms ; or, being conscious of Deity,
to be no otherwise moved by His Presence than if He were not,
or had no inspection of our thought or action ? This is in the
same manner, to live without Deity, and perhaps this last may
be esteemed the greater impiety.
Either atoms or Deity; if the latter, consider what is
22 The Philosophical Regimen.
consequent; who it is that is present; how and in what
manner. Dost thou, like one of those visionaries, expect to see
a throne, a shining light, a court and attendance ? Is this thy
notion of a presence ? And dost thou wait till then, to be struck
and astonished as the vulgar are with such appearances and
show ? — Wretched folly ! — But if without all this He be here,
actually present, a witness of all thou dost, a spectator of all
thy actions and privy to thy inmost thoughts, how comes it that
thou livest not with Him, at least but as with a friend ? Who
is there whom thou wouldst thus treat ? whose presence, whose
testimony, whose opinion dost thou ever slight thus ? Who is
there that passes with thee so for little ? What wretch ever so
mean ? Is this living so much as with a friend ? Is this living
with a benefactor ? a father ? a superior, who is more than
magistrate, more than people, more than friends, relations,
country, mankind, world ? Is this thy conception and belief of a
Deity ? Art thou still with thyself, as if alone ? This is, in
effect, to believe and not believe.
The foundation of all those seeming strange things taught
us by a certain philosophy is solely this : That there is a God*
And having once this notion, am I to rest here ? — Impossible.
For, being concerned as I am in this general administration of
things, it behooves me of necessity, if I believe such a ruler, to
enquire what His rule and government is ; what His laws, what
His nature ; what I myself am, how related to Him. This the
vulgar think they see, and on this account worship Him, pray
to Him, and do whatsoever else they think is acceptable to
Him. Why ? — That they may receive good from him ; avoid
ill. What good ?— Life, health, estate, children, &c. What ill ?
— Death, poverty, losses, disgrace. These are the pursuits and
endeavours, these the aversions and declinings. If I cannot
satisfy my lust, I grieve and repine. If I meet with evils and
afflictions, I murmur and complain, if I dare do so, if I may
have leave, if not, and that I am withheld by fear, what do I
still but murmur and repine ? What is it that can make me
* ort eort 6(6s . . . .f)p,e.lt 3e, rives ovrcs vir' avrov yeyovapcv Kal irpos ri
cpyov, [That there is a God . . . and who are we, who were produced
by him, and for what designed 1 — Epict. Disc, Bk. II., c. xiv., § 27].
Deity. 23
praise or think well of Providence ? A command ? Impossible.
Nor can anything else besides the reason of the thing, besides
satisfaction, besides conviction. What conviction ? — That His
administration is entirely just and good. Why then am I
miserable ? — This is natural. This cannot be otherwise. Hence
all those expostulations with Providence and sentiments which
we endeavour to stifle but cannot. Thus the vulgar.
But he who has otherwise considered the nature of God, so
as firmly to hold that opinion of Him and his administration as
of what is most wise and perfect, such a one receding from the
vulgar has no longer the same notions of good and ill, happy
and unhappy, amiable or detestable ; but in all these things is
utterly different. Men despise and condemn me. — Hast thou
done anything unbecoming a man ? hast thou violated any law
of the Deity ? If not, in what way can this be called disgrace ?
how is this shameful ? On what is it that disgrace or honour
depends ? Is it on the opinion of the wise or ignorant ? of the
vulgar, or those who have reason ? of the virtuous or vicious ?
Thus disgrace, infamy, contempt, is riot an ill. For if real shame
and disgrace depend on the judgment of the most considerable,
and not of the most vile, then that which is disgrace with men,
but is honourable, right, and becoming with respect to God, is
either not disgrace, or the Deity not Deity. But I suffer pain, I
undergo fatigue, I am exposed to dangers and death. — Where is
that soldier who thinks of these in the presence of his general ?
What wounds, what fatigues does he complain of ? What life is
he concerned for ? And is not the cause much greater here ?
Thus are outward things despised, nor is this anything
more than what is consequent from a real sense of Deity. Now
let me once but be convinced, that my good is elsewhere
than in outward things ; let me exercise myself in this, so as to
incline and decline aright ; and see how firm and undisturbed I
shall remain in my thoughts of Providence and Deity ! how
satisfied with administration ! how clear of doubt and scruples !
how far from any murmuring or repining, and in all respects
how pious, religious, just, and good ! But otherwise than thus,
this cannot be. Remember, therefore, how it is that this
revolution is wrought, and how these things mutually operate on
one another. For by conceiving highly of the Deity, we despise
24 The Philosophical Regimen.
outward things ; and by despising outward things we become
strong and firm in the opinion and conception of Deity. But as
this opinion can never be made lasting, sound or just, whilst we
retain those other false and unsound opinions; so it is here
chiefly that we are to labour, and to expect the fruit of this
when we are further advanced. And thus it is that the same
philosophy recommends to us the use of the eWXto-t? [aversion],
and to suspend for a certain season the opegts [desire]. For how
can we worthily contemplate God, how raise our thoughts to
things of this kind, or look steadily on all those causes,
revolutions, and that order and economy of things in the
universe ; whilst at the same time the things that strike and
astonish us are such as happen in the common course of that
Providence ? *
Consider also, besides what has been said, a further reason
against the use of the o/oe^f? [desire] in this place. Consider
the age, vulgar religion, how thou hast been bred, and what
impressions yet remaining of that sordid, shameful, nauseous
idea of Deity. Consider in the case of any good motions
or affections that way; what affinity they have with vulgar
prayers and addresses to Deity, and what a wretched effect
this has within, when anything of this kind mixes, or whilst so
much as the remembrance of those other feelings remain.
Therefore if thou wouldst praise, worship, and adore aright,
wait till other habits are confirmed and until ideas of a
certain kind are worn off, as they will be when the whole scope
of life is changed ; aims, aversions, inclinings and declinings
reversed, transferred ; the whole thought, mind, purpose, will,
differently modelled, new. Then it is that thou mayest soundly,
unaffectedly and safely sing those hymns to God which the
divine man mentions.-)- But till such time, see how dangerous
this is, and instead of being wholesome diet, how likely it is to
give a surfeit and create a sort of pall and aversion, which may
be of ill consequence and even fatal.
* What is said here will appear with light enough after reading
The Discourses of Epictetus, Bk. III., c. xiii., concerning solitude, <fec. :
how this may be borne ; how nature contemplated ; how the Deity
imitated.
t Discourses of Epictetus, Bk. I., c. xvi.
Deity. 25
Again, consider whence comes that weakness and irresolution
in the opinion concerning mans being sociable by nature ; and
also in that of other creatures being made serviceable to him
and for his use. Whence comes this floating and hesitation, but
from the inward jarring of those principles as they touch and
have affinity elsewhere, as they borrow, as it were, from another
system, and derive from another fountain of which they still
retain something and cannot flow wholly clear and pure ? Other
wise ; what could be more absurd ?
Has the spider her web and art for no use ? And are so
many species of volatiles made and framed for her proper prey,
and as so many subjects of her art and faculties, and shall
the understanding and reason and faculties of man, his tongue
and hands and power of employing and managing these as he
does, be esteemed a lesser matter, an accident, a vagary, a scape
and oversight of nature, foreign to her design, and owing to
blind and random chance ? Then may the whole world be so,
full as well, and let us hearken to Epicurus' atoms.
What shall we say, therefore, as to all these domestic
animals which are thus framed and fitted to us, some of which
can scarce be imagined able to subsist without us ? Shall sheep
and cattle and the rest of that kind be only accidentally man's ;
but properly and naturally the lion's and the tiger's ?
Are bees, ants, and even all creatures that do but herd,
allowed society and man denied it ? and this, too, when he of all
creatures is most impatient of solitude, most exposed in such a
state, most indigent and helpless in maturity as well as infancy,
and can no way subsist or be preserved without it, and neither
subsist in winters without some artificial lodgment and provision
of food, nor be protected against the creatures that can master
and devour him ? All this is senseless and absurd, and yet see
what happens ! Consider, how great must be the power of those
former impressions to mar and corrupt ? and how inveterate is
this evil ? Apply this, therefore, upon all occasions to the idea
and contemplation of God, and remember the preceding caution.
If the writer of the Table 1 described, after such a manner,
Imposture and her Cup ; if the draught was such in those days,
1 Cebes, Tabula.
26 The Philosophical Regimen.
what is it now ? and how deeply have we drunk ? Is it possible,
therefore, that we should have stomachs to receive any strong or
wholesome truths till we have vomited up those dregs ? Can we
expect anything but qualms, nauseatings, crudities, indigestions ?
What must we do, then ? Be contented with slender diet :
observe a regimen and course : refrain ? — No, but I must follow
my instinct and bent ; I must eat stronger food ; I must go out
into the open air ; I must exercise and use my limbs. Go, then,
and write and think and speak high things of Deity ; talk *
magnificently of virtue, exhort others, imitate a man in health;
act a Cato, a Thrasea, a Hebridius, a Ruf us : but expect to suffer
for this. Remember what will be the event, since even within,
in thy own breast, these things are cautiously to be approached.
If presently after what has been said, it be lawful to
venture on a strong thought of Deity, and even renew withal one
of those dangerous ideas, take this single reflection. Consider a
Paradise, an Eden (as in Milton), where that favourite of the
Almighty was placed : how privileged : how adorned : fitted to
view and contemplate the noble scene ; and admitted even into a
part of the administration. What sort of solitude f he passed ;
in what thoughts, what affections ; after what manner he had
communication with Deity, access, commerce, discourse, entertain
ment. This and more than this (for these are still low ideas) are
verified in him, who having followed certain precepts, has
accordingly framed himself a mind and will, and gained that
situation TO a-vvrarTeiv eavrov TO?? 0X019 [where he adapts
himself to all things]. This, those ancients (those only heroes)
knew and were possessed of. This, the worshipper of the
TO Sainoviov had ; this the explorator had ; this the seeming
wretch, who was 0/Xo? aOavaroi? [dear to the immortals] ; and
this he who could say trav pot crvvapju,6£ei [everything har
monizes with me. — Marcus Aurelius Med., Bk. IV., § 23.]
Again, consider how it had been with thee in former days,
if, according to the idea then conceived of Deity, a voice had been
heard, an angel or messenger appeared. What an immediate
* Discourses of Epictetus, Book III., c. xiv., against the use of
the opegts.
f Epict., Disc.,. Bk. III., c. xiii.
Deity. 27
change ? how sudden a renouncing of all other things ? and how
strong an application to that one affair, whatever it were that
should be thus enjoined ? Consider how it is with thorough
enthusiasts who are actually persuaded of some such message
or resolution ? how resolute and bold in despising all other
things ? and how transported with this one honour, this sole
dignity ? Now is it not a thousand times more ridiculous than
the merest enthusiasm of these people, to be convinced of a being
infinitely more perfect than all that they conceive or think ; and
yet to be by so many degrees less affected than they are ? Is it
not a thing monstrously preposterous to be fully and absolutely
convinced that there is a Deity, and of the highest perfection ;
that He superintends all things, sees and knows all things, and is
present everywhere ; and yet at the same time to be so little
affected by such a presence as to have more regard even for the
commonest human eye ? What can be the meaning of this ?
where does the mystery lie ? Consider, and thou mayest soon find.
The vulgar have an idea of God ; they have ideas also of good,
of excellent, of able, admirable, sublime. Now they for their
part unite these ideas and join those of this latter kind to the
idea of their God. Therefore that which they count good they
ascribe to him. Thus they give him a will such as their own ;
passions such as their own; pleasure like that of their own;
revenge, as delighting in revenge ; praise, as loving praise : thus
attendants and a court, external pomp, splendour, and whatsoever
they themselves admire. Consider now thy own idea of God ;
and whether thou joinest to it the ideas that thou hast of good,
glorious, amiable, and excellent. Otherwise, what can such an idea
produce ? Is arbitrariness or revenge at any time a good with thee ?
If so, ascribe the same to God ; imagine Him to be one that is
always thus entertained and that enjoys the highest advantages
of this sort. Thus thou shalt admire Him, imitate Him, con
ceive the highest esteem and value for Him. — What is despicable ?
If the things themselves are such, why dost thou admire them ?
If they are of the nature of good ; if they are excellent and of
worth; where should they be but with the Deity? What will
Deity be, when deprived of these ? what will there be left to
admire or emulate ? how praise or greatly esteem such a condi
tion ?
28 The Philosophical Regimen.
No wonder, therefore, if the vulgar surpass us in their
opinion of Deity. No wonder if the vulgar admire and adore
theirs with more sincerity than the philosopher his; if all we
mean by philosophy be this. How should it happen otherwise
with those of this sort ? What should they be else but in a
certain manner Atheists ? They have discernment enough to
find that such ideas as these agree not with the idea of God ;
but not discernment enough to find that they agree as little
with the notion of good.
"OTTOV yap TO <TV/u.<j>epov, e/ce? KOI TO ev<refie$. [" For where our
interest is, there, also, is piety directed." — Epict. Ench., c. xxxi.,
§ 4.] Now try to philosophize after this rate and see what
will happen. Correct the vulgar idea. Divest the Deity of
all which we esteem happiness and good ; take from Him
what we reckon power, what we extol as great and
mighty : and what remains ? what must be the effect ?
Where can piety be ? where adoration, reverence, or esteem ?
In what way can we admire or respect such a being
but so much as in comparison with some great prince or
dignified man ? Now, where is the remedy ? what cure ?
Nothing but this. To consider what is excellent and good,
what not. For where we imagine this to exist, thither our
admiration will be turned ; where we think this is wanting,
thither our contempt. If that which vile and wicked men
possess be excellent and good, we must admire vile and wicked
men ; there is no help for it. If pleasure be good, we must
admire those who enjoy pleasure and have the means of being
voluptuous. If anything of those external things (anything
besides what belongs to that perfection of a mind) be good, it
follows that we must attribute either these things or something
of the same kind with these things to Deity ; or otherwise we
must think lowly and contemptibly of such a being. In short,
if we would truly own or worship Deity, if we would leave
room for any true and sincere veneration, honour, admiration, or
esteem, we must either ascribe those things to Him which we
admire as excellent and good, or we must no longer admire as
excellent or good those things which we cannot ascribe to Him.
If what has been said above be just, consider what a
wretched kind that is which we call free talking about matters
Deity. 29
of religion, and the established rites of worship. What the
effect is, when we oppose or impugn such opinions as those,
especially if it be done after a certain manner, that is to say, if it
be not still with a certain economy and reserve; if it be
vehemently; if it be acutely, and as showing wit; if it be
ridiculingly and with contempt.
Consider what the TrpoXtfifseis [preconceptions] are in this
place, and that the vulgar cannot better apply them than
they do ; so that to disturb them in these formed opinions is
to overthrow those very Tr/ooAr/^ef? [preconceptions], lead them
into greater error and render them profane and impious. They
have now the right notion in general, that there is a Supreme
Ruler, that He is powerful, that He is just ; but they know not
rightly what is power and what impotence, what is just,
unjust, right or wrong. How should they know ? Where have
they learned to apply these notions rightly, and to accommodate
them to their proper subjects 1 Wilt thou teach them 1 If not,
what dost thou teach them in this other way, but impiety and
atheism ? Now dost thou appear to them as one sacrilegious and
profane ? As indeed thou art, on this very account. For what
greater sacrilege is there than that which removes the notions of
Deity out of the minds of men, and introduces atheism.
Remember therefore to respect these rites, whatever they be,
which others have within their own minds erected to the Deity,
as well as those other rites which they have publicly erected and
in other outward temples.
If modern superstition disturb thee be thankful it is not
Indian and barbarian, that they are not human sacrifices, that they
are not Druids. In the meantime imitate the chastity, decency,
and sanctity of the ancients, remembering Xenophon, remembering
Marcus, remembering Socrates and his last words, remembering
Epictetus (TTrevSeiv 8e KOI Oveiv [" it is incumbent on every one to
offer libations and sacrifices." — Epict. Ench., c. xxxi., § 5], with
what follows OTCLV /mavTiKy [" when you have recourse to divina
tion." — Ibid., c. xxxii.], and what stands at present in room of
this.
All this preposterous conduct, this pressing and earnestness
to correct those notions of theirs in religion, is due to an ignorance
of the TT/O 0X7/1/^*9 [preconceptions] ; how it is that they apply
30 The Philosophical Regimen.
them, how far they can go, and no further. Build to what
soever pitch, if these be not rightly applied and plain truth
spoken out, all will tumble, all will unravel again and be as before.
How should this be any otherwise ? Grant but this, that all
vice is error ; that all pursue their good and cannot but do so ;
tluat there is no good but a good mind, and no ill but an ill one :
immediately all is right. See how all the rest will follow ; how
smooth and easy the way is ; how all those other matters come
to nothing: offence, vengeance, anger; and those other things
which presuppose these : forgiveness, mercy, favour, placability.
What placability ? what forgiveness ? towards a mad man ?
towards a poor distempered wretch ? Who is ever offended at
such a one ? where is the anger ? what room for mercy ?
what for punishment ? how is any one hurt and by what ? But
consider things in any other way. Suppose that a creature may
do better than he does, and that he may follow something else
than what appears to him his good; suppose vice to be one
thing, and ill another ; suppose vice itself to be an ill in the
whole. See what must necessarily follow. Must not Deity be
offended ? must not I be so, much more ? am not I hurt ?
must not I complain ? must virtue be thus abandoned ? must
the things of the world be thus unequally distributed ? Go and
say that these things are of no moment ; that they are not real
goods. Persuade them that to be affronted, to be despised, to be
poor or to smart, is not to suffer ; that the sack or ruin of cities
and destruction of mankind are not in themselves ill ; and that
with respect to the whole, these things are orderly, good and
beautiful. Inculcate this. Make them understand it. But if
this be ridiculous to think of, how much more ridiculous is it to
endeavour to change their other opinions; or if they seem
convinced of anything, to think that this should stand a moment,
thus propped, without that other foundation ?
Why thus concerned, particularly for their wrong opinion of
Deity ? Could they understand this, then all those other
paradoxes would be easy. Then that also would be conceived
(which is now so monstrous), that whatsoever happens in the
world or to me in particular, of whatever nature it be, I
should affect and love as natural, kind, sovereignly good and
beneficial ; as that which is nearly related to me, was designed
Deity. 31
me and fitted to me, and as that which is best both for the world
in general and in particular for me. For how is this any
longer a paradox ?
If there be an order and economy for the good of the whole,
then nothing can happen to me except from that economy which
provided for me in particular the best that was possible, and
had respect to my good. If I am convinced of this, I must
naturally love whatever happens to me from that economy. If
I would have that not to happen, which happens according to
this economy, I destroy (as much as in me lies) this economy,
which is for my good, and but for which the universe must live
under perpetual ills, and myself be exposed to whatsoever may
be imagined of ill. And of some such economy as this, even
those are sensible who least think of Deity. For how is it that
they say ? " Nature has done her part. Nature has been kind in
this and in that, in affording a passage out of life, in putting
an end to misery. Nature has provided. Nature has taken
care." Therefore, but for some nature or another (whatsoever
that nature be) things had been worse, and my condition more
miserable. Therefore, thanks be to that nature. But nature
might have done better still. — Here is the question ; upon this it
turns. How is nature wise ? How is nature thus universally
good ? How is nature the tender mother of all ? For if this
were true, who would not love nature ? who not embrace her
dispensations ? who not adore Providence and Deity ? Where,
then, is the paradox, if Deity (real Deity) be believed ? For,
thus it will follow.
If there be Deity, there is no chance or contrary ill design.
If all be from one wise and good design, then all is one and the
same end, and nothing is supernumerary or unnecessary. If so,
then there is a concatenation and connection ; all things are
related to one another, depend on one another, and everything is
necessary to everything. If so, then if any one cause be
removed or perish, all perishes, and I must trust to disorder and
confusion.
If there be a supreme reason of the whole, then everything
happens according to that reason. If anything happen contrary,
the reason of the whole must cease and perish. If so, then
there is nothing which can carry on the interest of that whole,
32 The Philosophical Regimen.
or which can prevent any ill that may happen to the whole
itself, or parts of the whole ; if so, then ill may be infinite, and
my sufferance and misery infinite.
Thus does it follow as a necessary consequence from the
opinion of Deity, that whatsoever happens in the world, or what
ever is appointed to me in particular, should be kindly affected,
esteemed, and beloved by me, be it hardship, poverty, sickness,
death. For, what else should I choose, or what else esteem and
love, but that which tends to the good and perfection of the
whole in which I am included ? Now, if the whole be perfect,
everything that happens in the whole is such.
Either the whole is perfect or imperfect. If it be an
imperfect whole, how can there be Deity ? If, therefore, it be a
perfect whole, what is there in it besides what is just, • equal,
necessary, good ? How can anything be altered and not the
whole be rendered imperfect ? See, therefore, that neither on
thy own or any other account, thou desire ever to correct
anything of the order of things. For, what is this but, as much
as in thee lies, to destroy the perfection, happiness, and security
of the whole, and consequently also thy own ?
O Soul ! think how noble will be thy state, when in
the manner that thou art taken with other beauties, other
simplicities and graces, thou shalt proportionably contemplate
and admire that chief original beauty and that perfect simplicity
and grace of which all other is the shadow, reflection, and
resemblance. How well will it be with thee, when all those
other inferior secondary objects are loved according to their
order, never but last; and when the first object is loved
and in its due rank antecedently to all; with an affection
above all other affection, and according to real natural
affection, not that which is called so towards a relation or
friend. Now, see how thou art moved at the present
friendly object of this kind; see the power of this inferior
love. How dear those features, and all the external explica
tions of the soul beloved. Now as the face of heaven out
shines this other face; as the frame and structure of the
celestial bodies surpass the goodliness and beauty of this other
body; so is that soul more beautiful than this other soul; so
is that love more beautiful than this other love. Why fear
Deity. 33
enthusiasm ? Why shun the name ? Where should I be
ecstasied but here ? Where enamoured but here ? Is my
subject true, or is it fiction? If true, how can I forsake it?
How be ashamed of it ? How desert * the artificer, the creator,
parent, prince ?
Am I ashamed to desert a vulgar friend, or disown him
because of his mean appearance (if by chance he be unfashion
able and in a despised garb) ? Am I withheld from being
discountenanced or suffering shame on his account, by another
shame of a just kind ? And shall nothing withhold me here ?
Shall I be ashamed of this other friend ? Shall I be ashamed of
this diviner love and of an object of love so far excelling all
those objects in dignity, majesty, grace, beauty and amiableness ?
Is this enthusiasm ? Be it : and so may I be ever an
enthusiast. Happy me, if I can grow on this enthusiasm, so as
to lose all those enthusiasms of every other kind and be whole
towards this. Shall others willingly be accounted enthusiastic
and even affect this sort of passion as virtuosos, men of wit,
pleasure, politeness, each in their several ways and for their
several objects (a song, a picture, a pile of stones, a human body,
a shape, a face), and shalt thou be concerned at being found
enthusiastic upon another subject so far excelling in itself, and
which is original to all the rest ?
Who would lose a moment's solid good, who would willingly
be separated from the highest enjoyment and quit the amiable
object that creates it ? Or is that beauty, that amiableness
only a chimera ? Is the beatific vision enthusiasm ? Or suppose
it enthusiasm, is it not justifiable and of a right kind ? What can
be more highly reasonable ? What greater folly, poorness, and
misery than to be without it ? Is there a rational and admired
enthusiasm that belongs to architecture, painting, music, and not
to this? Who is there that is not seized with admiration at the
view of any of those ancient edifices, where order and proportion
apparent in all the parts, and resulting from the whole, forces
in a manner its effect, and is visible and striking even to vulgar
tiSs TavTa iKava Kivrjcrai rivas KOI fitarpe^at irpbs TO fir) aTroXiTmi' rov
; ["Is not all this sufficient to prevail on some men, and make
them ashamed of leaving an artificer out of their scheme 1 " — Epictetus,
Discourses, Bk. I., c. vi., § 10.]
E
34 The Philosophical Regimen.
eyes ? Who is there that is not struck by those plain and obvious
graces, the natural beauty and simplicity of a work of Raphael ?
Or who is there so little musical as to be unmoved by the voice
of a Siphacio, or the hand of a Corelli ?
Now join all these together. Remember the Pantheon, the
wonderful fabric of St. Peter's, and (at once) the architecture of
Michael Angelo, the sculpture and paintings of the masters, and
the voice of the eunuchs with the symphonies. Does this raise
an ecstasy and enthusiasm ? and shall not a nobler architecture,
nobler accords, and a diviner harmony be able to create it ? Are
there senses by which all those other graces and perfections are
perceived, and is there no sense or faculty by which to com
prehend or feel this other perfection and grace, so as to bring
that enthusiasm hither, and transfer it from those objects to
these and to the one original and comprehensive object ? Now
observe how it is in all those other subjects of art or science ;
what difficulty to be in any degree knowing, and how long ere
a true taste is gained ; how many things shocking, how many
offensive at first, which afterwards are known and acknow
ledged the highest beauties. But it is not instantly that this
sense is acquired and these beauties discoverable. Labour and
pains are required, and time to cultivate a natural genius though
ever so apt or forward. But who is there that so much as
thinks of cultivating a genius this other way, or of improving
the sense or faculty which nature has given of this kind ? And
is it a wonder we should be dull as we are, confounded and at a
loss in these affairs, blind as to this higher scene, these nobler
representations ? In what way should we come to understand
any better ? in what way be knowing in these beauties ? Is there
study, science, and learning necessary to understand all beauties
else, and for the sovereign beauty is there no skill or science
required ? Remember in painting the shades and masterly
strokes; in architecture the rustic kind and that which they
call ferino ; in music the chromatic and skilful mixture of
dissonances. And remember what there is that answers to this
in the whole.
Animality what? And the tokens of it? The system,
parts, economy, circulation of the blood, a liquid carrying
globules round a centre. This, the microcosm. Now in
Deity, 35
the real /coVyuo? ? A centre (heart), sun, and round it the
globes moving in aether. Same circulation, same economy,
numbers, time. Only these are regular, steady, permanent : the
other are irregular, variable, inconstant. In one the marks of
wisdom, determination, in the other of whims and conceit; in
one judgment, in the other fancy ; in one will, in the other
caprice ; in one truth, certainty, knowledge, in the other error,
folly, madness. And yet to be convinced that there is something
above which thinks, we want these latter signs ; as thinking
there can be no thought but what is like our own. We sicken
and grow weary with the orderly and regular course of things.
Periods, and stated laws, and revolutions proportioned and
accountable work not upon us, or win our admiration. A
miracle is just contrary. By harmony, order, concord, we are
left atheists ; by irregularity and discord we are to be convinced
of Deity. The world is accident if it proceed in course; but
wisdom if it run mad. *
That the whole is harmony, the numbers entire, the music
perfect ; with what else of this kind has been so well proved,
so often said. — But why in effect unsay this again so often?
Why make myself the hindrance ? Why break the order,
interrupt the music, and destroy (as much as in me lies) this
harmony and concord by repining, striving, resisting ? Why
not adhere to this ? Why not always find this harmony ?
How enjoy this harmony ? What can be the cause ? What,
but the want of harmony within ? — And how attain this
harmony ? how tune myself to this ? how consonant and
of accord with Deity ? Hearken ! Begin. Wouldst thou be a
musician ? Hast thou patience to learn the gamut, rudiments, and
grammar of this music ? — Take up the lute. Touch the strings
and tune them. Hearken ! Begin. Tow ovrcov TO. ju.ev eamv e<f>
ri/jiiv, TO. Se OVK e<£' yfjuv. [There are things which are within
our power, and there are things which are beyond our power.]
Say, how does it sound ? Ill, harsh, hollow ? Anything, or as
good as nothing ; nothing at all. Hold ! lay down the lute.
No more. Have done with philosophy, divinity, contemplation,
thought, virtue, Deity. Go to common talk, common rules. Be
!cf. Shaftesbury's Characteristics (1711), Vol. II., pp. 337-8.
36 The Philosophical Regimen.
everything. Nothing. Or rather be nothing indeed, truly
nothing. Go to atoms (if it be atoms), for that is better than
a life where there is no better or more certain opinion of things
than superstition or atoms.
Happy he ! whose faith in Deity, satisfaction, assurance,
acquiescing, rejoicing in Providence and in the universal
administration and order of things depends, not on any history,
or tale, or tradition, or wonder amongst men ; not on man
himself, or any set of men ; not on any particular schemes, or
systems, or solutions, of the phenomena of the world ; no, not
even on that great solution by a futurity ; but who, leaving the
present things to be as they are, and future ones to be as
they are to be, committing all this to Providence, to be or
not to be, as to that seems best, knows, feels, and is satisfied
that all things are for the best; nothing ill-made, nothing
ill-governed, nothing but what contributes to the perfection of
the whole, and to the felicity of Him who is the whole in the
whole. s
But how should this be ? How is this brought about ?
How believe that all is good and nothing ill ? How not be
disturbed, nor shaken, nor in doubt ? How not be afflicted,
repine, nor grieve ? How no ill Providence, dark Providence,
hard fate ? How no words, no secret thoughts, no inward
murmurs of this kind ?
No way but this (which thou knowest too well enough). If
ev TO?? €(j> rifj.lv fjiovois 6fl$ TO aya6ov /ecu TO KO.KOV [thou makest
good and evil to consist in things which are within your power.
— Epict. Ench., c. xxxi., § 2.] If not the rest is idle, senseless, poor ;
flattering * God as a tyrant, not loving, following, obeying him as
a father, or good prince. •(• " Dread Sovereign ! Thou art all-
powerful. And what then ? Therefore thou art all-good. I
am in thy hands, mighty Lord. And what then ? Therefore, I
complain not. Talk not why I was thus made, or why made at
all if to be miserable ; if to have been in fault and been a wretch.
, €\tT)(rov' eTTiTpffyov fjioi c£f\df'iv. avdpaTToftov, aXXo yap ri 6e\ets rj
TO apcivov [" Lord have mercy upon me, suffer me to come off safe.
Foolish man ! would you have anything but what is best "? " — EpicL
Disc., Bk. II., c. vii., § 12.] f cf. Dr. Tillotson.
Deity. 37
No, I am contented to be miserable. I say not so much as
within myself that my lot is hard. I say not thou art unjust,
arbitrary, cruel, or that thy order is ill, or amiss." Wretch !
dost thou not say it ? Is not this saying it ? How canst thou
help it, poor wretch such as thou art ? How can Almightiness
itself help it ? Or how make this otherwise : that he who sees
not goodness should believe goodness ? that he who feels misery
should not complain, even though he vows most holily that he
complains not, nor ever will complain ?
Faith in Deity : not faith in men. This not previous, and
not fundamental to that. For, what a foundation ! — Men
witnessing for God ! And who for men ? Who for powers above
men ? who for miracles ever so great ? What security against
daemons ? what proof against magic ? what trust to anything
above or below if first not satisfied of Deity, i.e. goodness,
order of justice in the whole ? And how assured ? By what
but reason ? what but philosophy ?
Faith in Deity. That other, and this. A faith which
depends on a philosophy proved by record ; and a faith which
depends on a philosophy that had neither education nor the
weakness of nature on its side : sprung from strong conviction,
without melancholy, even in youth and pleasure, in the midst of
the world, and in an age just going contrary, all things fighting
against it, superstition, libertinism, the fashionable learning and
philosophy in vogue.
Imagine these two, not as separate but going together ; and
this latter as a confirmation of the former. Consider the care
taken to preserve and retain that former, and take notice to
bring the same diligence and care hither. A certain enemy of
religion defining that which he understood by faith, called it a
" premeditated and stubborn resolution of giving reason the lie."
There is indeed a faith which carries with it a sort of resolution,
and stubborn resolution to give everything the lie except the
reason. The stubbornness of this faith is such as to contradict
the very senses, the imaginations, the habitual and almost natural
opinions of mankind, the report of men, the received notions of
the world, the plausible and in all appearance most innocent
thoughts, unexceptionable judgments, and warrantable fancies :
as of what is good, what ill, what eligible, what ineligible, what
38 The Philosophical Regimen.
indifferent and what of concern. If by reason be understood the
reason of the world, this is indeed giving reason, and (if you
will too) common sense the lie. TO, e<j> y/uuv, TO. OUK e(f rnu.lv.
Is not this equally faith ? Is not this equally mystery ?
Remember then, and respect those other mysteries, for all is
faith, and without faith all must be Atheism
What is that which at present they call Deism ? The belief
of a God ? What God ? A mind ? a real mind ? universally
presiding, acting ? present everywhere ? conscious of every
thing ? even of secret thought and every intelligent act, as
being infinitely intelligent and the principle of all intelligence ?
Is it this they understand ? Is it of such a Providence as this
that they are persuaded in themselves ? — Be it so. It is well.
But if it be anything less than this ; if this be too high a
key ; if the heart (the truest pledge of thought) discover plainly
a sense and apprehension of things far short of this, far wide of
such a system, far beneath so high and exalted an idea ; then let
us hear what this idea is. What Deism ? What Deity ? Of
what is it they talk to us ? What nature ? (What is nature ?)
What virtues or powers do they tell us of ? What magic, charm,
or spell ? What coherence of things ? or what jumble ? How
hanging together, put together, standing together ? By what
power, energy, force ? For from one sort of man we have an
account, such as it is, a blind account, be it ; but still it is an
account, and in this they are fair. Atoms and void. A plain
negative to Deity, fair and honest. To Deism, still no pretence.
So the sceptic. Perhaps so ; perhaps not so. But to Deism still
no pretence.
From whence then this other pretence ? Who are these
Deists ? How assume this name ? By what title or pretence ?
The world, the world ? say what ? how ? A modified
lump ? matter ? motion ? — What is all this ? Substance what ?
Who knows ? why these evasions ? subterfuges of words ?
definitions of things never to be defined ? structures or
no foundations ? Come to what is plain. Be plain. For
the idea itself is plain ; the question plain ; and such as
everyone has invariably some answer to which it is decisive.
Mind ? or not mind ? If mind, a providence, the idea perfect :
a God. If not mind, what in the place ? For whatever it be, it
Deity. 39
cannot without absurdity be called God or Deity ; nor the
opinion without absurdity be called Deism.
For what is a mind in the infinite but an infinite mind ?
and how this, without infinite wisdom ? and how this without
infinite goodness, infinite power? and how this without a
providence, consciousness, care, rule, order, such as has been
mentioned ? And what less than this is God ? What opinion of
a God but this opinion ? what else can be called Deity, or
denominate a Deist ?
What is this Deism they talk of ? How does it differ from
mere Atheism ? Is it some secret virtue (like magic) which they
assign to things ? Is it the plastic nature, or Epicurus' atoms ?
But Epicurus was more sincere, for his is only a god for the
vulgar ad populum phaleras [trappings for the people]. But
he pretends not to bring this into philosophy nor resolve any
thing in nature by this, or any such like principle. Neither
does any one call the Atomists Deists. Of what system then
are these Deists ? Of Democritus' or the Epicureans they are
not. Peripatetics, Platonists, Pythagoreans, Pyrrhonists ? What ?
Faith in Deity, and justly so called. For is it not indeed
faith ? implicit faith ? implicit belief ? For how always explicit ?
The sudden shocks, disturbances, foreign ideas, sophistry
of wit, commotion in the affections : what in these cases, but
faith ? For the reasons being not present at these moments,
or ready at call, must we not rely on those decrees and resolu
tions which reason at cool seasons and fit times of deliberation
has so often confirmed and rendered peremptory ? How else
adhere to anything ? how constant, stable, self -consistent, but by
this faith ? Strive, however, to need it the least that is possible ;
preserving the chain of thought and affections uninterrupted;
that so it may be still the same reason, same comprehension,
conviction and clear light. For what hinders that this should
always be explicit? What but wrong opinions, wrong assent?
Why therefore permit such ? Why these beginnings ? (for who
knows the consequence ?) Why any suspension, relaxation, wrong
attention but for a moment ? For, to what does this tend except
to the loss not only of reason but also of faith itself ; the reserved
powers of reason, the recourse, refuge, citadel, strength ?
PROVIDENCE.
Nothing can be wiser than that order of Providence : that
the same things it has placed out of our power it should also
have placed out of our knowledge. Would there be room for
the natural affections ? What measure of affection inclining or
declining in outward things, the good or ill of native country,
friends, body, health ? What medium but either perfect
indifference towards these, or perfect rebellion, perfect contempt
and resistance of the Divine will ? But as things are ordered by
that Divine will in making plain what is of real concern to me
and hiding what is not, how can I be indifferent or without due
concern in every relation ? I know how Providence bids me to
affect and act ; but I am ignorant what will be the event of my
action. If I were not ignorant I must affect the event which
might perhaps be contrary to that which is my present
endeavour and action. Therefore I must either not act, or act
without affection, or with my affection contrary to my action.
For if I affect the end, how can I but affect in some manner and
love the means ? and if the means, how unnatural would this
be ? For in this manner I must oftentimes affect (as would
seem most preposterous) my country's ruin, children's death, my
own sickness, and the like, all absurdity and confusion. But in
the other way and as it is regulated, how natural and easy is all !
For how is it that I affect the prosperity of my little family ?
as it stands in the Great, if the Great call, farewell the little
one ; I give it up — to what ? — to my country — and my country
to what ? To my first and greatest country. But what the good
of that is I know not till my action is over. Therefore, I cease
not to act still and affect according to nature, always satisfied
with my having so affected as well as with the contrary effect, if
it happen to prove contrary. And thus I affect both according
to nature and with nature. According to nature, as willing the
good of my relations, and country, primarily, chiefly, and as
most eligible; but not absolutely. With nature, as yielding to
40
Providence. 41
Providence, and accompanying Providence when its will is
declared, having beforehand willed with this exception and
reserve, and w? av SiScorai [as it may be permitted] not e£ a-n-avro?
[by all means]. *
This was eligible just now, before the thing was over. Now
it is over, it is no more so, but contrariwise. What is yet to
come may be eligible or ineligible, because not yet come. But it
is certainly to come. How know I certainly 1 If certainly,
must I not wish it so, whichever way it be ? What deliberation ?
What room for choice or preference ? Where would the eligible
be, or the ineligible ? Wliat priority or precedency of things ?
What regard or deference to anything — friends, relations,
country ? Why more affect their good than their ill ? Why not
equally their ill, when Providence would have it then ill, when
thou knowest that it is their ill and not their good that
is to happen? — But this thou knowest not, and canst never
know, till it be happened ; and when happened, then affect, then
choose. The one was eligible before, but now the other. Thus,
before the event, affection and disaffection, approbation and
disapprobation, inclining and declining had place ; but now,
after the event, no place. All is affection, no disapprobation, no
disaffection, nothing ineligible. The past is ever eligible, and
the best. aXX' aeJ /xaAAoi/ eiceivo 6e\a) TO yivo/mevov Kpelrrov. yap
qyovfjiai o 6 $eo9 Oe\ei % o eyca. [" But am always content »with that
which happens, for I think what God chooses is better than
what I choose."— Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. vii., § 20.]
Such is the harmony of Providence with one who has harmony
in himself, and knows wherein Providence has placed his good and
ill ; wherein not. Providence dispenses things unequally. What
things ? The things that are not my good. But the things that
are my good, how ? Are they not in my own power ? How
blame the dispensation ?
Providence dispenses without regard, promiscuously and
indifferently. — What ? Indifferent things, but good and ill ;
how ? — To the good and to the ill distinctly, not promiscuously.
Be thou therefore one of the good and take of good what
* cf., Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. vi., § 9 ; Bk. II., c. x., § 6 ; Bk.
III., c. xxiv. ; Bk. IV., c. vii., § 4.
42 The Philosophical Regimen.
thou pleasest, and reject the ill. But if anything stick, if there
be any good of thine which lies out of thy reach, any ill which
thou canst not remove; for this, still thank thyself, for why
is such as this either thy good or ill ?
The good of my country ; the good of 'mankind. In what
way my good ? — as wishing it. But happening contrary ? —
my good still (the world's good). But thy wish is lost. What
wish ? against the world. Was this my wish ? was this my
good ? — Fool ! the wish itself was my good, in this lay all.
My wish was right ; my aim, endeavour, action right. But the
event was wrong. How wrong ? through me ? No. Through
whom then ? Through Providence ? — And was that wrong ?
has that failed ? — If, then, neither Providence be w^rong nor
I wrong, what wrong is there ? where is there any wrong
remaining ? Is that wrong which for the universe is right, and
just, and necessary ? But I know not what is so. And what
need that thou shouldst know beforehand ? Know this only
for certain, that that and only that has happened, or can ever
happen. But how then can I wish ? or how wish well to any
thing ? How hope ? or how affect ? How, but with exception ?
Not ef aVai/To?, but with reserve for this my ultimate final wish
and desire, in which I never can be frustrated. And thus I may
safely and without disturbance wish well to things, my country,
mankind, or any part of things ; wishing still better to the
whole of things, the general interest and common weal, as
administered by that common mind, intelligence and wisdom,
which is unerring.
This is that which saves from all solicitude and anxiety.
For in this manner there needs no search, no divining, no
penetrating, into what will be or is to be. Ov yap e^rei TTOTC Sogai
Tl TTOl€lV VTTCp TU)V O\COV, ttXX' €jUL€/ULVr]TO, OTl TTO.V TO yeVO/ULCVOV
cKeiOev eo-Tiv [" For he was not used to inquire when he should be
considered to have done anything on behalf of the whole of
things, but remembered that everything that is done comes from
thence."— Epict. Discourses, Bk. IV.,c. i., § 155.] The good of this
country, this world, is always ready found and at hand. Do
not torment thyself, therefore, about the good of that other
world, that other country ; only love it and do thy part for it,
and for those in it. But how love it ? As loving this other
Providence. 43
world, relation, and country much better : and as always pre
ferring its prosperity and interest to any other prosperity or
any other interest.
One thing there is impossible for me to affect (were it in
Providence), and only one thing : that is my real ill. If that be
in Providence I cannot affect with it, for Providence itself has
made it impossible for me so to do. But withal Providence has
made it an impossible case, that I should have any contest with
it about my real good, or that there should be anything in the
whole course of nature to oppose my good. There is not, and
cannot be, any such thing in Providence ; for what is really my
good, Providence has placed within my power to obtain ; what
is ill, to avoid. Hence where can my difference be with
Providence ? Why not allow Providence to be free since I am
free ?
Providence has given me means (d^ojoyua?) to know both it
and myself, and to be conscious for what and to what I was
born. If I use these I am a man, and as such Providence will
use me. If I use them not I am a mere animal (let my shape
be ever so much of a man), and as an animal Providence will use
me, even as we men use other animals, making them willingly or
unwillingly serve our purposes.
What is that which is dragged and forced ? What goes to
death unwillingly ? An animal — though a human creature — an
animal still (if it be thus), a mere animal; for if it knows no
better what life is, it is still but the animal. The man knows
better, and will go to death like a man, not as to slaughter.
What slaughter ? Is God the butcher ? Man ! dost thou know
God, that thou thinkest thus of Him, and no better ? Can He
kill otherwise than kindly, fatherly ; for the good of everything,
and as the preserver of the whole ? Is there any harm ? —
Not if thou art a man ; thou canst not think so. For where is
the harm of death ? And if none here, what other harm ?
Where can there be any ? But if thou art an animal only
there is harm, in this alone, that what might have been a man
should remain still an animal, and no more. This is thy harm.
But that there should be animals is no harm in the whole.
When thou ceasest to be one (that is to say, when thou becomest
a man), neither will there be any harm to thee. So that if thou
44 The Philosophical Regimen.
complainest any more, complain (if thou wilt) of the hard case
of animals, but not of men ; for, being once a man, thou wilt
know there is no cause.
If I know Providence, I know my good and can follow it ;
so, no complaint. If I know not my good, I do not in reality
know Providence. So if I complain, I complain of a spectre and
not of Deity: I complain as an animal, not as a man. For wherein
lies the animal ? where the distinction ? Go then and complain
for the sake of animals and for thyself as being but an animal,
when yet it lies in thee to be otherwise if thou pleasest. See
what a complaint !
Thus ignorant people sitting by a painter will needs be giving
him instructions, guiding his hand, and teaching him his art.
" This colour is harsh, this disagreeable and sad ; here the paint
lies too thin and hardly covers the cloth, here thick, uneven,
rough." Come, take the pencil, let us see thy own performance,
what ordering, what work thou art like to make. But is this the
case here ? — Man ! is it not much more the case ? Canst thou judge
of this in the piece ? Seest thou the real piece ? or a part only ?
Is it the whole breadth of the cloth or only a thread or two ? Art
thou in a right light and at the due distance, to view this in the
full breadth of time, the circle of generations, the compass of
worlds and in the infinite .extent of this design ? Hast thou so
much as thought of this ordering? Art thou a virtuoso here?
Hast thou any masterly knowledge or judgment ? Let us see it,
give us the proof; let us hear how thou earnest by it. Where did'st
thou study for it, and how ? or will the taste and knowledge of
this kind come of itself ? or come easier and with less study than
that other taste ? Is the high virtuous part more easy than the
virtuoso's ? How know a hand ? how judge the master or the art ?
how comprehend so much as one rule? — But why should
there be tyrannies? why these dark sides upon the globe?
I would have no shade, no roughness, but all smooth ; no sad
colours, but all gay and light. — Pretty amusement ! ladies' talk !
the wantonness of children ! But is this for men too ? Is this to
study nature ? is this an understanding of beauty ? a knowledge
of proportion, symmetry, or rule ? — Where is the great original ?
Or if none ; from whence these copies ? this derivation ?
What is there in the world that has more of beauty, or that
Providence. 45
gives the idea of the TO KciXov more perfect and sensible than the
view of an equal commonwealth, or city, founded on good laws ?
a well-built constitution, fenced against exterior and interior
force; a legislature and a militia; a senate propounding, debating,
counselling; a people resolving, electing; a majesty executing
and in rotation ? — And for what all this ? Against what,
this precaution ? Whence this so fair, so comely and admirable
a structure ? How if no tyranny, no ambition, no irregular
passions or appetites of men ?
This is that Chrysippean paradox inveighed against by
so many. Thus honest Plutarch. — But how can this (even
this too) be otherwise or better ? how more orderly or beauti
ful than as it is ? Or, say, where would the prodigy of a
Chrysippus be, his dialect, his astonishing force, if not liable
withal to be thus taken by many and thus derided and inveighed
against ? For how explain these things to the vulgar ? And
what to say to those vulgar philosophers who thus set forth
Providence ? who need a daemon to solve the ill phenomena, and
who make thus a mere baby of the world, to dress, and
dandle ? — How ? — as being babies themselves, and having baby-
(Soyyuara. But till we have quitted and exchanged these for
better this must be still with us a baby-world, and baby-
like be thus dressed and undressed, taken to pieces, and put
together, according to what our fancy tells us is pretty or
not pretty. — O, pretty play ! but which costs many a sigh
and groan. — Leave the play then, and be in earnest. Be no
more the child and there will be no need to cry or lament. All
is well, excellent well, and thou mayest play too and play
safely in another far better manner, if thou understandest that
divine play (Epict. Discourses, Bk. II., c. v., and Bk. IV., c. vii.). For
it is that alone that can make piety, religion, or virtue, earnest ;
Providence, in earnest, Providence, that is to say, in earnest, a
government and good government ; in earnest, wisdom, perfect
wisdom, perfect goodness, than which nothing better can be
thought or wished, for else this is not earnest, and when we
praise, we lie and flatter.
In parliament, the contents and not contents. In Providence,
which ever way the question go, always a content, though in
voting a not content perhaps, and of the losing side. In this
46 The Philosophical Regimen.
council the question may be often carried for the worst side ; in
the other, never but for the best. Which of these interests wilt
thou favour ? to which art thou a well-wisher ?
It is long since (remember) that thou saidst *" When open
thy eyes, to see that whilst thou seekest other times than
these, other subject than this, all is wrong ? When come thither,
afraid to fall from thence. Therefore even then (supposing
the then) still wrong, and anxiety still continues." —
But the then will not be the case, therefore what is this
but to court disappointment and love trouble for trouble's
sake. For it is not required of thee to be troubled for
a world which is already taken care of, unless, perhaps, thou
art of opinion that it might be governed much better yet than
God governs it.
•J- Particular Providence, in respect of general Providence, is
as a shallow cause and narrow means in the room of a deep and
eternal cause with extensive and infinite means.
To jBouXrjima TJ/? ^Jcreft)? KaTctjUiaOeiv CCTTLV e£ &v ou Sia^epo/meOa-
[" We may learn the will of nature from the things in which we
do not differ from one another." — Epict. Ench., c. xxvi.] In
whatsoever we accuse Providence we contradict ourselves and so
cannot without absurdity accuse. Sicknesses, diseases, deaths, in
vegetables, animals, systems, worlds remote, and at a distance
from ourselves, are natural. The answer is ready OTL TWV
yivofj-tviav ecrnv [these are events that will happen]. But
bring it a little nearer and presently OIJULOI, raXa? eyw [how
wretched I am]. No one is so vulgar as not in some measure to
contemplate the revolutions of things, and see at least the spring
and fall with many other generations and corruptions of nature
as really beautiful and pleasing. The same of nations and even
worlds where self can but be abstracted. Animals may sicken
and die : no harm still : it is natural. Men (foreign men) may
die : it is natural ; even our neighbour at the next door : it is
natural still, rwv yivo/u-evow. But in my house ! in my own
family! there it is. And thus we stand not to our own
judgment. We accuse ourselves, deny, contradict ourselves, when
we accuse Providence : for were we all of us, in spite, to make
* From scrap of old date, viz., Holland, 1698. f St. Giles, 1704-5.
Providence. 47
a charge against it, we could not any way agree one with
another, nor any one of us with ourselves.
Again, TO ^ovXrjjma rfjs 0iVeo>? /cara/xaflefj/. To know nature,
feel a Providence, acknowledge its ways, own its course, the
secret is only this: to be the same in cases that are the same.
It is self only alters the case and will ever alter it, till self be
right placed.
THE END.
Either man is made with design or without design : if with
out design, it must follow that there is no end either in the
whole or any part of man ; and then neither muscles, veins,
arteries are designed, nor are they to any purpose, or can they
be said to any end. If this be false, and that all these were
made to an end, if they are all designed and have each of them
their end, then there must be somewhere a last or ultimate end
in man. If so, then that which plainly is a means only to some
thing else cannot be itself that end. It cannot be said of an
eye that it is its last end, either to be of such a certain form, or
to move after a certain manner, or to feel itself in any certain
pleasant affection, as when it has got out of darkness into the
light, or out of too fierce a light into a softer and less dazzling
one. Each of these are means : for both the shape and motions
and affections particular to it are all towards one single end,
which is that of sight. Neither is sight therefore the end of
the man, since sight is in him only a means to other ends ; thus
the ear and hearing, thus the palate and tasting, and thus all the
other senses, as well as that which belongs to generation. For,
if those parts themselves are a means to a further end, then the
affection of those parts and that peculiar sense belonging to
them, is a means still, and not an end. If neither the pleasure
or sense of tasting, nor that of venery, nor any other be the
end, then in general, pleasure is not the end. What is it, then,
that we call the end ? To eat, drink, sleep, copulate, and the
pleasures which belong either to eating, drinking, sleeping, or
copulating, are all of them only means, and refer to something
further. If we can find nothing beyond, then all that we can
say is, that the end of man is only to be in such a certain
sound and perfect state of body ; and such as serves to generate
similar bodies. But if besides what has been mentioned, there are
any certain dispositions of mind such as plainly refer to a species
and society, and to the enjoyment of converse, mutual alliance,
48
The End. 49
and friendship, then is the end of man society. Therefore to
be such as to serve to that end of society (which is to be good or
virtuous) is that to which everything in man is lastly referred,
and which is properly his end. And where his end or perfec
tion is, there certainly must be his good.
The end or design of nature in man is society. For,
wherefore are the natural affections towards children, relations,
fellowship, and commerce, but to that end ? The perfection of
human nature is in that which fits and accommodates to society,
for he who wants those natural affections which tend thither,
is imperfect and monstrous. Now, if the ultimate design and
end of nature in the constitution of man be, that he be
framed and fitted for society, and if it be the perfection of
human nature to be thus fitted, how should not this, which
is the end and perfection of human nature, be also the good
of man ?
If that to which man is carried by nature (as to society he
is) be not his good, then his own private end and good is to go
contrary to nature, so that his end in nature and his end in
himself must be utterly contrary. Therefore, if those natural
affections are that which lead him from his own real good (as
when they cause him to expose himself for others, to suffer pain
or labour or hardship for others), it must be in his end also to
extinguish those natural affections ; or else it must be said to be
consistent with his end, not to follow, but to forsake his good,
which is absurd. If in order to his good he must extinguish
those natural affections, then it must be his end to become
savage, unnatural, horrid and inhuman. But if this can never
be his good, but the contrary, then his end must be to follow
nature and to attain the perfection of his kind.
If it be a detestable and miserable state to be wholly
unnatural and void of humanity and humane affection, then
is it the good of man to be socially inclined and affected ; if so,
it is his greater good still to act by a more clear and perfect
affection of that kind ; if so, then that affection which is wholly
towards virtue is that in which he finds his greatest good ; if so,
then it is his end, and not anything else is his end but to affect
as is natural to him and as becomes him ; to will and incline as
the nature of man requires; in short, to follow nature, or the
F
50 The Philosophical Regimen.
order and appointment of supreme reason in his particular
constitution and make.
Whatever is a man's end is that which he cannot quit or
depart from on account of any other thing. Now, pleasure of
any kind, riches, honours, and life itself, are what anyone may
very well quit on other accounts. But it is impossible to do well
or happily in quitting either integrity, justice, faith, or anything
which is the part of a man, as he is a man. Therefore, this only
is his end and not the other.
He who follows pleasure as his end knows not what he
follows, since contrary things procure it, and what pleases at one
time displeases at another; neither are the things on which he
depends ever in his power. He who follows virtue as his end
knows what he follows, and can never be at a loss ; neither are
the goods he seeks ever out of his power.
What hesitation, doubt, perplexity, in him who has not ever
one and the same end ! who pursues that at one time as good,
which at another time he despises ! who chooses at one time
what he rejects and is out of conceit with at another ! What
constancy, stability, and evenness in him who has one certain
end to which he refers all his actions, and which is never out of
his sight !
That is said to be the end of everything, to which the thing
is ultimately referred. Thus the end of the watch is to show
the hour of the day, and to move in such certain and proportion
able degrees, for the service of him for whose use it is made.
A person who had never seen anything of this kind, nor
knew the use of such instruments as these, would, however,
upon considering the watch, be satisfied soon that its principal
perfection was not in the case, which served to cover and
defend it; and that its ultimate end or design was not
merely to move, but to move after a certain manner and
in certain due proportions to which the wheels were adapted.
How then as to man ? Does it seem that his perfection is in
the case ?J — But the body perhaps is more than the case,
and is as the wheels in the watch, which are principal and
1 " It is unlikely that the good of the snail should be placed in
the shell."— Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xx., § 17.
The End. 51
essential to its operation. What is it, then, that we can under
stand to be the effect and operation of a man ? Is it only when
he eats and drinks and sleeps ? Is it when the heart beats
and keeps due time, and the adjacent parts about it correspond ?
If so, then indeed is this all one with the watch. But what if
the fancy and imagination be wrong? what if the understanding
be blind ? what if the affections fight one with another ? Is this a
right effect? is this a due operation? What, therefore, is the
operation and effect of a man? what does the nature of man
aspire to and terminate in ? Is it not this ? " The use of reason ?
the exercise of understanding? a certain will and determination?
certain affections?" What exists therefore, that is able to hinder
these operations and these effects ? Or what is there in the
sufferance or injury of that other part, which is able to hinder
me from acting as a man ? from being either just, proud, virtuous,
or good? from acting that which is before me with magnanimity
and constancy ? from acquiescing in what is present as the part
assigned me and committed to me ? from being benign, and
beautiful towards men, composed and easy towards events, and in
unanimity with the whole ? This is what the nature of man
imports. Or is it rather on the contrary to whine and to bemoan ?
to be peevish and malignant ? to be effeminate and soft ? impotent
towards pleasure, and impatient of pain and labour or hardship ?
If manhood be the contrary to this ; if it be in action and exercise,
in reason and in a mind that this consists : then is it here that
the man is either saved or lost. These are the springs and wheels,
which, when impaired and hindered, the man ceases and is extinct.
And as in the watch, a certain motion is the end to which all is
referred ; so also, here, it is a certain motion that is the end, and
when this proceeds right, all is well, and nothing farther is
required.
We see in many things what their end is in nature; but
more particularly in our own bodies. The end of the muscle is
the attraction or convenient motion of the part, such as the eye
lid or eye itself. The end of the eye is sight ; the end of sight,
the preservation and protection of the animal ; as the end of the
seminal vessels and their proper affections is the propagation and
increase of the animals, and the good of a whole species. The
teeth, eyes, hands, and all other limbs and organs are made for
52 The Philosophical Regimen.
one another and for the good of the whole body. The different
sexes are made for one another and with respect to a kind or
species. If so, then in the same manner as the several parts of
the creature have their end, so the whole creature has his end
in nature and serves to something beyond himself. If it be to
the good of his kind, it must be to the perfection of his kind.
If the perfection of his kind be society, then his end also will be
society. And since the only perfection, the only tolerable state
of man and that alone in which he can possibly endure or subsist, is
society ; the end of man is therefore society. If it be not his good
to follow this end ; then has he some other end within himself,
which is contrary to that natural end or end in nature. If, on
the contrary, it be his chiefest good to follow that end of nature,
then is his private end and the real and only end of man to live
according to nature.
Now that which is called our private or particular end,
to which we ultimately refer or have respect, must be that
which can yield to nothing else ; for, if it yield to anything, then
that which is yielded to will be the end, and not what we first
determined. If there be that which is preferable to everything
else, and which can yield to nothing besides, this, if anything,
must be called our end. Now, to live merely, cannot be our
end ; for, then death could not at any time (as it may) be rightly
preferred to it. What is there, therefore, that we can never (as
they say) sacrifice to anything ? Bodily ease, soundness of
limbs, health, and constitution are undoubtedly eligible and
desirable. Are these, therefore, or is it pleasure that to which
we may sacrifice everything else ? If so, then we may sacrifice
our mind. Now it is certain that he who has a mind, or what
is worthy to be called so, will never think of parting with it, on
any other account. If so, then that which last remains and is
preferable to everything else is a mind and resolution, will or
reason, becoming a man. If so, then this is our end ; and our end
in nature and our private end will be the same. And thus our
end is, to live according to nature.
GOOD AND ILL.
Nam quid sequar, aut quern ? [For what shall I pursue,
whom follow ? HOT., Ep., I, Bk. L, line 76.] Why should it
disturb me that I am thought singular ? and wherefore should
I not persist in following what I think is good, after I have
thought so long and chosen on such good grounds ? — But this is
odd, this is out of the way, and against the general conceit. —
Whom then shall I follow ? Whose judgment or opinion shall
I take concerning what is good, and what is not ?
One man affects the hero and esteems it the greatest matter of
life to have seen war and to have been in action in the field.
Hence he looks upon those as wretches and altogether contemptible
who have never known anything of this kind. Another laughs
at this man, counts this stupidity and dullness, prizes his own wit
and prudence and would think it a disgrace to him to be thought
adventurous after that manner, or to have willingly at any time
engaged in danger.
One person is assiduous and indefatigable in advancing
himself to the character and repute of a man of business and of
the world. Another on the contrary thinks this impertinent,
values not his fame or character in the world, and would
willingly never come out of the stews or drinking houses where
he best likes to be, and which he accounts the highest good.
One values wealth as a means only to serve his palate and
to eat finely. Another loathes this, and aims at popularity.
One admires gardens, architecture, and the pomp of buildings.
Another has no relish this way, but thinks all those whom they
call virtuous to be distracted.
One there is who thinks all experience to be madness; and
thinks only wealth itself to be good. One plays ; another
dresses and studies an equipage ; another is full of heraldry, a
family and a blood. One recommends gallantry and intrigue ;
another riot and debauch ; another buffoonery, satire and the
common wit ; another sports and the country ; another a court ;
53
54 The Philosophical Regimen.
another travelling and the sight of foreign countries ; another
poetry and the fashionable literature. All these go different
ways. All censure one another and are despicable in one
another's eyes. What is it, then, that I am concerned for ?
Whose censure do I fear ? or who is it that I shall be guided
by. If I ask are riches good when only heaped up and
unemployed ? One answers, they are. The rest deny. How is
it then that they are to be employed in order to be good ? All
disagree. All tell me different things. Since, therefore, riches
are not of themselves good (as most of you say) and since there
is no agreement amongst you as to the way they are made or
have become good; why may not I hold it for my opinion
that they are neither of themselves good, nor in any way made
good?
If there be those who despise fame ; if of those who covet
it, he who desires fame for one thing despises it for another ;
and if he who seeks fame with one sort, despises it with
another ; why may not I say that neither do I know how any
fame can be called a good.
If those who court pleasure and admire it of one kind,
contemn it of another, why may not I say that neither do I
know which of these pleasures, or how pleasure in general, can
be good ?
If among those who covet life ever so earnestly, that life
which to one is eligible and amiable is to another despicable and
vile ; why may not I say that neither do I know that life itself
is necessarily good ?
In the meantime I both see and know certainly, that the
necessary effect or consequence of loving and esteeming these
things highly, and as essentially good, is to be envious, to repine
and long, to be often disappointed and grieved, to be bitter,
anxious, malignant, suspicious, and jealous of men, and fearful
of events (all which is misery); and that on the other side the effect
of despising these is liberty, generosity, magnanimity, self -appro
bation, consciousness of worth. And are not these really good,
but uncertainly so, as the other ? A generous affection, an
exercise of friendship uninterrupted, a constant kindness and
benignity of disposition, a constant complacency, constant
security, tranquility, equanimity : are not these ever and at all
Good and IlL 55
times good ? Is it, then, of these that anyone can at any time
nauseate or be weary ? Are there any particular ages, seasons,
places, circumstances, that must accompany these to make them
agreeable to us ? Are these variable and inconstant ? Do these
by being ardently beloved or sought procure any disturbance or
misery? Can these be at any time over- valued ? If not, then
where can my good be but in them ?
Wherefore is it that I act at any time ? Why do I choose ?
Why prefer one thing to another. Is it because I conceive or
fancy good in it, or because I fancy it ? Am I, therefore, to
follow every present fancy and imagination of good ? If so,
then I must follow that at one time which I do not at another ;
approve at one time what I disapprove at another ; and be at
perpetual variance with myself. But if I am not to follow all
fancy alike, and if of fancies of this kind some are true, some
false ; then I am to examine every fancy and there is some rule
or other by which to judge and determine. It was the fancy of
one man to set fire to a beautiful temple in order to obtain
immortal remembrance or fame. If this were a good to him,
why do we wonder at him ? If the fancy were wrong, in
what was it wrong ? Or wherefore was not this his good as he
fancied ? Either, therefore, that is every man's good which he
fancies, and because he fancies it and is not content without it ;
or otherwise there is that with which the nature of man is
satisfied and which alone must be his good. If that in which
the nature of man is satisfied and can rest contented, be alone
his good, then he is a fool who follows that as his good which a
man can be without and yet be satisfied and contented, in the
same manner as he is a fool who flies that which a man may
endure and yet be satisfied. Now, a man may possibly not have
burnt a temple (as Erostratus) and yet may be contented. In the
same manner a man may be without any of those things which
are commonly called goods and yet may be contented ; as on the
contrary he may possess them all and still be discontented and
not at all happier than before. If so, then happiness is in a
certain temper and disposition, in a certain mind and will. If
so, why do not I seek it there ?
Whatsoever is good must be alike good to all; whatso
ever is ill, alike ill to all. Sorrow, trouble, dejection, honour
56 The Philosophical Regimen.
anxiety, fear, tranquility, satisfaction, content, freedom of mind,
good dispositions, good affections, and whatsoever creates or
establishes, are alike good or ill to all, and therefore are of the
nature of good or ill. If virtue be not necessary to produce
satisfaction and content, or, if content may as well be without
as with it, then virtue is not our good ; if necessary, it is our
good, and whatsoever is indifferent towards the procuring of
content is indifferent in itself. Now, if this that my fancy
represents to me, be necessary to content, it must be necessary
towards every man's content. Is it fame that my fancy
represents to me as necessary ? But this is not necessary to
every man's content (for there are those who can live as well
satisfied without it), therefore it is not necessary to my content,
and is not my good. Is it honour or power ? The same. Is it
riches ? The same. Is it pleasure of whatever kind ? The
same. Neither do any nor all of these certainly procure
satisfaction, since the mind may be as unquiet in the midst of
these as at any other time. Now if that alone be good which is
necessary to every man's content that it should be present, then
that alone is ill which is necessary to every man's content that it
should be absent. Now, that a man should be sure of living
twenty years, or one year, or one hour, is not necessary to his
content. Nor is it necessary to his content that he should
not believe or know that he is to die the next year or next hour.
Therefore, to be sure of dying the next year or next hour is
indifferent ; and, therefore, death is not an ill. If pain be ill, it
must be alike ill to all men (for so is sorrow, affliction, honour,
despair, anxiety, and all of this sort). But if there be a certain
temper or resolution which can cause it to be slighted, then it is
not an ill to him who has that temper or resolution, but to him
who wants it, and therefore not constantly and in itself an ill.
But if pain be said to be ill, yet all pain is not so ; since
that which to an effeminate person is insufferable pain and
trouble, is to a man laborious or warlike, a subject of delight and
enjoyment. What else is that delight of sportsmen, or of
those who love adventures and who engage in things hazardous
and not accomplished but with pain and difficulty ? What is
the difference between one that is robust and manly, and one
that is weak and tender, except this — that which afflicts the
Good and III. 57
one is of no concern to the other ? Therefore, if to some the
greatest pains can be tolerable, and if to others the slightest
pains are intolerable, then is not the greatest pain itself to be
considered so much as that is to be considered which makes pain
to be either well or ill-supported and to be tolerable or
intolerable ? Thus, therefore, neither is pain, nor death, nor
poverty, nor obscurity considerable as ill. Nor, on the other
hand, is pleasure, wealth, honour, or fame of any consideration as
to our happiness or good. But as by fearing these former as
ill, or pursuing and following these latter as good, there must of
necessity be disturbance, disappointment, anxiety, jealousy, envy,
animosity, which are and ever must be eternally ill and
miserable ; so on the contrary side, by a liberty from these, there
must be serenity of mind, tranquility, security, an undisturbed
enjoyment of all social affection, and an exercise of all virtue,
which are and must be eternally good and happy.
He that affects what is not in his power, or disaffects in the
same manner what he cannot hope to avoid, cannot be said to
have content. He therefore who pursues a right affection,
pursues his happiness, content and good. He who despises this
affection, or says he can be content without it, contradicts him
self, and may as well say he can be content without content.
The good of life is either in the sensations of the body, or in
the motions and affections of the soul, or in the action of the
mind in thought and contemplation ; or, if it be not in one of
these separately, it must be in some mixture of these one with
another. If it be in sensuality alone, then it is in brutes that
good is completed and most perfect, since they have more
capacity for this, as they are more exempt from the other.
If it be in soul and mind, but in subserviency to sense, it
is still the same, since if the highest good (supposed in the sense)
be attained, the other is slighted, and thus still the bestial state
is most perfect. If it be in a soul and mind eminently and
principally, so the body is to be subservient, then it is to be
considered how far this subserviency is to go. Now it is evident
that as the activity of the mind and operations of the soul are
the causes of the sensual pleasures being less felt, and are there
fore the diminution of that other sort of good ; so, on the other
side, is sensuality the obstruction of this good which is in a mind.
58 The Philosophical Regimen.
Such is the opposition and fight of these two principles. There
fore, if the highest degree of this sort of good (viz., of a mind),
be not attainable but by the loss of the other, then that other,
as the meaner good must be sacrificed to this greater, and the
only true and real good is the enjoyment of a soul and mind
freed from the incitements, commotions, and disorders of sense.
Now if the chief est good be in this of a soul and mind, and
their operations, then consider how it is that thou exertest them ;
what thou makest to be the objects of their pursuit and inten
tion. How dost thou employ them, and upon what ? how is it
that thy soul loves, esteems, admires, rejoices ? what is it that
thy mind contemplates with delight ? and what are the thoughts
it loves to be entertained with ? See what the subjects are. For
as is the worth of these so is thy worth. As the greatness and
fulness is of these, so is that of the good thou enjoy est. See
therefore where fulness is and where emptiness. See in what
subject resides the chief est excellence and beauty, and where it is
entire, perfect, absolute ; where broken, imperfect, short. View
these terrestial beauties, and whatever has the appearance
of excellence and is able to attract. See that which either really
is or but stands in the room of the fair, beautiful, and good : *
a mass of mettle ; a tract of land ; a number of slaves ; a pile of
stones ; a human body of such certain lineaments and proportions.
But go to what is more specious : a friend ; a set or society of
friends ; a family ; and that larger family, a city, commonwealth,
and native country. Is this the highest of the kind ? Is this of
the first order, the first degree of beauty ? May each of these be
beautiful by themselves, without a beautiful world ? Can beauty
and perfection be there and not here ? or, if here, can it be in a
less degree than there ? If beauty be at all in this /coVyuo? (the
original and container of all other beauties) can it be less perfect
in the whole than in the parts ? Or, on the contrary, is it
not impossible that it should be imperfect in the parts, and
only perfect in the whole ? — where all the pieces f are (in the
artist's phrase) rapporttes, matched, adjusted; where all is joined
* KaXov KOI ayadov.
f (rup&aivftv oL rfx^rm Xeyouo-t [" they are suitable, the workmen
say."— Mar. Aurel. Med., Bk. V., §8.]
Good and III. 59
and united ; and in which all number, pvOfjio?, measure, and pro
portion are summed. See in painting, see in architecture, where
it is that beauty lies. Is it in every single stroke or stone, which
unitedly compose the whole design ? is it in any separate narrow
part, or in the whole taken together ? is it (suppose) in the foot-
square of the building, or the inch-square of the painting ? or is
it not evident that if the eye were confined to this, the chief and
sovereign beauty would be lost, whatever slender graces might
appear in those imperfect fragments ? Now consider and apply
this. Consider painting and architecture itself, consider music
and harmony, a voice, a face, to what does this refer ? how
stands it in the larger piece ? how in the whole ? what part is it ?
of what is this the image, reflection, shadow ? where is the
sovereign beauty ? where the sovereign good ?
See, therefore, what is amiable in the first and what, but in
the second and lower degree. Go to the first object. Go to the
source, origin, and principle of excellence and beauty. See
where perfect beauty is, for where that is, there alone can be
perfect enjoyment, there alone the highest good.
SHAME.
(1) They laugh at the habit, the posture, place, countenance.
Shall this disturb ? But were it in another case (a loss of
fortune, of friends, a melancholy or concern about a dying
relation or a sinking public). This would be otherwise, there
would be little regard to this or to anything they could say,
though ever so full of mockery or satire. And why this ?
Because thou wouldst be otherwise taken up, and in a greater
concern, to which the rest would be as nothing. And is this,
therefore, a slighter case ? Are those other things of more
concern than that without which there is no being a friend, or
possibility of being truly a fellow-citizen, or fellow-creature, an
owner of deity, or lover of men ? — without which I must lie,
dissemble, flatter ; tremble and be a coward ; soften in pleasure
and be voluptuous and effeminate; hate and be an enemy; be
unreconciled to Providence and be impious; in short, without
which my whole life must be absurdity and contradiction ?
(2) Again, either this is a true shame (and then it is some
thing vicious), or, if it be for nothing in itself ill, the shame
is ill. But how to bear the reproach of a whole people ? How
do robbers, debauchees, and the common women ? But these are
not ashamed of ill actions. And shall they be unhurt by the
report of others that are virtuous, whilst thou art inferior to the
reproaches of those who are ignorant and vicious ? They are
not ashamed (thou sayest) of what is base. Wherefore ?
Because they think it not base. But if they thought it base,
could they be otherwise than ashamed ? No. Then, wherefore
is thy shame ? See what thou art forced to confess. In short,
it is impossible we should be sorry for anything but because we
think it ill. It is impossible we should be ashamed for anything
but because we think it base. So that either thou art troubled
because thou thinkest fame to be a good, or every virtuous action
not honourable.
60
Shame. 61
(3) Again, if a number of children deride thee, wouldst
thou be concerned ? — No. If of idiots ? — The same. If of
mechanics and the lowest of the vulgar ? — Still the same. But
perhaps these whom thou fearest are judges of vice and virtue,
and know what is good, what ill. — Not so. Then who are these
but children, idiots, and mechanics, or all one with these ? and
what have we to do with their judgments ? If they are wise,
instead of condemning, they will praise the action. If they
condemn, they are the same vulgar whom thou despisest, and who
know neither thee nor themselves. Thus as to the great people.
Thus as to kings and their court. Thus as to the formal part of
the world and those who are called learned.
(4) Again, to remember that saying of Marcus Aurelius, " to
look down as from on high," &c. : — a city ; a rumour of people
a nest of mites ; the swarming of insects. How, when the tree
is shaken ? how many cities swallowed in one earthquake ? and
how soon must all be swallowed by death, and the whole surface
of the earth changed and new ? Not anything extant that now
is. What if the change were sudden and before their eyes ;
how would they look ? Where are the solemn brows, the
important reproofs, the anger or mirth ? They divert them
selves with me; they please themselves. Be it so. But
who can bear contempt ? Any one may that knows himself ;
what it is that one contemns, and why; what is contemptible and
what not.*
(5) Again, these, by their contempt, disturb me. But if
greater and better than these were present and applauded me I
should bear up and should contemn them wholly and what they
thought or said. Why, man ! Is there not a greater Presence
than all this ? Is there no intelligence, no consciousness in the
whole ? or is all there blindness, ignorance, and impotence ? Or is
that Being a more inconsiderable spectator and less worthy thy
concern ? or, if thy action be just and thy affection right, is not
this that which he approves ? And what more ? Wouldst thou
that this approbation should be signified to thee ? Wouldst thou
hear a certain sound as from men ? Or wouldst thou that they
also should hear that thou art approved ? What folly ?
*cf. Hep) rov dyaviav, Epictet. Disc., Bk. II., c. xiii.
62 The Philosophical Regimen.
Consider, therefore, these five. (1) An ordinary calamity,
(2) robbers and the common women, (3) children and idiots
commending, (4) the world and its inhabitants, (5) God.
Pudor, inquit te malus angit [" a false shame distresses thee."
— HOT., Sat. II., 3, 39.] This is what forces thee to confess thy
meanness, lowness, and imbecility. This is what makes thee
unequal in every strife, unable to stand a moment on behalf of
thyself and inward character, or so much as to expostulate or
parley with these antagonist appearances, those species, marks,
spectres, phantoms, which carry all before them and make what
ravage they please. This is that which in company moulds and
twines thee after any manner ; forces thee to speak where thou
shouldst be silent, be silent where thou shouldst speak ; makes
thee to have whatever sort of countenance is commanded ; to
smile, frown, pity, applaud, as is prescribed ; and to be, in short,
whatever the company around thee is. For, should I not do thus,
what would they think of me ? what would they say ? Why,
man ! what is it to thee what they think or say ? Is not this their
concern ? Are not they to look to this ? Is it not at their own
peril ? What hast thou to do with their miseries and woes ?
with their wrong opinions, ill judgments, and errors ? See that
thy own opinions be right, and in particular that this opinion be
so which thou conceivest concerning their praise or dispraise.
What is all this stooping and slavery, and whence but from
that wretched opinion and Soy/ma still remaining, that another's
praise and commendation is my good ? Consider the sum of
this. What if all these and all besides that are upon earth
should conceive the highest opinion of thee, what good would
this be to thee ? or, if they all thought ill, what ill ? I should
be useless in the world. Retire then. Where is the harm ?
What sorrow, what ill does this portend ? What else is it but
death ? In the meantime, what is it to me, where my task is
appointed to me, where my service is, how far it extends, how
near ceasing and coming to that period to which, of its own
accord, and by the course of nature, in a few years it will come ?
Am I unserviceable now ? If not now, I must be so however
within a little. If I stay, but till age and infirmity do their
part, what signifies it whether it be one cause or another that
sends me out of the world ? If I have still a part in it, I act ; if
Shame. 63
not, I bid farewell. Where is the ground for all this anxiety ?
What is the ground for all this anxiety ? What is this stir
about an outward character ? Either it can be kept or not be
kept. If not, either I have a part still, or no part. If none, it
is well, I am discharged. How ? as complaining that it
should be thus soon ? that I had not a longer time given me to
act ? that I had no better nor more considerable a part ? Think
what it is thou callest considerable. How ? with respect to
what ? Is it with respect to Him who distributes the parts ?
Are not all alike considerable in this respect ? But with respect to
men — What are men ? What are their interests1, what is society
or community but with respect to this superior and his appoint
ment ? If I have no concern for them, what is it to me what
my part has been amongst them ? If I have concern and am
desirous of a part, it is because of nature ; and what part would
I have, for nature's sake, other than what nature has appointed
me ? What service would I render to the whole but what the
whole has willed ? What approbation is there. What glory or
honour with respect to Deity, except in following and obeying.
Remember therefore to run still to the utmost, and not to
stick half-way. Think always of the worst. They despise me. —
Who ? — These few, these two or three. Let it be the whole world
and what then ? See what is it that I fear ? Is it my body that
will suffer ? This is not the question here. What is it then ? Is it
my mind ? How, in what way, unless I will myself ? What is fame ?
in what way does it hurt ? in what way advantage ? what good
does it do me at best? what ill at worst? Where does the good
or ill lie? — In the opinion. Set that right therefore, and all else
will be right.
1 OVTC yap dv0p<airtv6v n avev TTJS eVt TO. dela crvvavafpopas tv
[" For neither wilt thou do anything well which pertains to man
without at the same time having reference to things divine." — Mar.
Aurel. Med., Bk. III., § 13].
REPUTATION.
Besides many and weightier reasons for a good man's
disregard of esteem and fame, even with those who are called
the better sort, there is this good warrant on his side ; that in
reality a true character was never well relished or understood by
the critics and nice judges of the world ; no, not so much as in
ancient times. Socrates and Diogenes appeared as buffoons,
and the first a dangerous one. As shining as was Marcus'
character and station, he was enough censured and under- valued
by the refined people. An Augustus and a court like his were
more after their taste. Cato was not so amiable with this sort.
A Cicero, an elder Cato, or a Fabius agreed better ; and to them a
Pericles or Themistocles was beyond an Aristides or a Phocion.
What these two latter, as well as Socrates, suffered, was from the
faction of these great ones, even such as pretended to be for
liberty. The people of themselves were well inclined towards
them, and could not but live well with men whose manners were
so simple and popular. The mere people, despicable as they are,
have in truth the best insight and judgment in the matter. It is
here as in the virtuous world. The half-witted and half -learned,
who have only a smattering of the arts, are pragmatical,
conceited, and only ingenious in choosing constantly amiss. A
Le Brun, a Vanderwerf, a French or Flemish hand is
charming ; a Titian and a Carate are too masterly, and rather
fright them. They can see nothing natural in that which is so
very near nature. Yet often a very child or peasant shall find
likeness and bear testimony to nature where these pretended
artists are at a stand. Few indeed (as the satirist says) are so
detestable as to prefer Nero to Seneca ; but how many would
prefer Seneca to Rufus ? For see how even Tacitus himself
treats this latter.
Why able to slight it easily in the whole, yet not by parts ?
64
Reputation. 65
why so often at defiance, yet reconciled ? free unconcerned, dis
interested, yet drawn in again and engaged? — But new views,
a better world (as they say), hopes of the world, a part in that
world, and a character. — Here the deceit and folly, here the
treachery, the ra e<p' fjij.lv forgot : the state of men and of their
minds who know not what are e<f> YI fj.iv, what not this and all of
this kind forgot. The game turned. A new game, a character,
a circumstance, the thing played for, not the play ; a play in
earnest, a game begun not so easily left off; not a loser con
tentedly: so bowls, tables, and other games, when made a business
of. Remember why these games f orborn formerly and why not
this game forborn therefore now ? Since playing at this game,
thou canst less command thyself than thou couldst at those
other games. — But try, let it be a game merely ; let it be play,
real play, skill, exercise only ; not gain or victory. For what gain
here but the action ? what victory but the action ? what played
for, but good play only ? And can the play be good that aims in
earnest at the praises of those who understand it not? Does it
belong any more to this play to frame men's voices than to a
gamester to make bowls or paint the cards ? Must not each take
them as he finds them ? But if that be the business to gain voices,
it is another art and has a different name. This is not playing
the cards or bowls; this is not play or exercise or skill, but a poor
ordinary mean craft, a servile trade ; the turner and the toy
shop. Or is ambition anything more? is it the business here
to make voices ?
What is at stake ? — a fortune, reputation, fame. — Is this then
what is played for ? No : but honesty and virtue. — Play away
then for those other are the cards and not the stake.
The dice run wrong — let them run. Is it my fault ? or shall
I go to a conjurer for better fortune ? If play I must, what have
I to do, but play well ? Or would you have me cheat ? — But you
will be ruined. Man ! how ruined ? What is played for ? — nothing
but the play. Thou forgettest thyself, for here is no ruin in the
case ; no loss at this game, but in the game or play only ; the
things thou talkest of are the cards, the dice, wood, horn, paste
board, stuff. What are their opinions ? their voices ? what is all
this to the game ? If they rail and I do well, is it not I that win,
and are not they the losers ?
G
66 The Philosophical Regimen.
All is lost. What ? Reputation, name, esteem ? — Who
plays for these ? Who made this to be the play ? But there is
no play without them. The game then is up. But thou must
leave the play. Right, for why did I begin ? But there is an
end, then. And must there never be an end ? But where is the
loss all this while ? Have I not my stake ? Have I not got
what I played for ? Or had I any design upon the cards ?
Should I pocket the dice, and carry these off with me ? What
have I to do with these ? or what care I who has them ?
Again, then. — What was the opinion or fame in those
early days, when honesty not succeeding with relations, or the
party, thou gavest that matter up, and turning Epicurean (with
Horace and his Odes) didst follow pleasure with air, mirth,
humour ? What was a rumour or a censure at that time ?
WThat was a grave judgment passed on thee by any of the
solemn ones of lofty brows ? What if some such account had
been brought thee when dancing (suppose) or in any other of
those entertainments ? Sport, mere sport, and nothing else.
— And shall the course in which thou art now engaged, the
entertainments of these latter days, and the order of life now
taken up with, be yet not so powerful, or of so much virtue as the
fiddles ? Shall that philosophy be more prevalent than this ?
Shall the vulgar, as they are considered, be more despised than
now ? Shall the chief good as then admired be more
attractive than at present, after what thou hast experienced,
and now seest, and knowest ?
$eo'? oo? vvv irlQijKos.1 To-day a prodigy, to-morrow an ass.
So it will be. O admirable thing, renown ! Wondrous reputa
tion ! Mighty fame ! Say, then, how is it now ? — An ass.
To-morrow, then, a prodigy — a prodigy ! To-morrow, then,
— an ass ; and soon an unaccountable wretch, a madman.
But who is a madman ? — Art not thou then one indeed, if thou
thinkest to be accountable or live accountably to such as can
give no account of themselves, their lives or manners, their end or
scope, what they pursue or fly, what they love or hate, approve or
disapprove, or by what rule they judge either of life or anything
in life ? For, as for those wise ones, the highest esteemed of our
1 Once a god to the gods . . now an ape. — Mar. Aurel. Med., Bk. IV., § 16.
Reputation. 67
days, do they not at times appear also as mad one to another ?
And wouldst thou appear better than the rest, thou whose
madness (if it be so) is so unlike the common and more passable
sort ? But be not concerned, go on in the use of rules,* persist,
and all will be tolerably well, in all likelihood, even here too.
Thou wilt have admirers enough and perhaps more than enough.
Remember the other day walking out and reading a letter
just received in which the So£dpiov [reputation] was threatened
(sad speeches abroad ! sad censures past ! sad noises and reports !)
Just at that instant the chimes sounded. — And what are
chimes ? What are noises, and rumours of tongues ? — Dull,
sorry things, God knows; equally musical both, equally con
sonant ; wires, hammers, or bells struck, pulled, moved just
alike, from as intelligent, rational causes, as certain and as
regular; and in comparison, the latter rather the more regular
of the two. Is this the tune that should move thus ? Is this
the harmony that should draw thee, affect thee, sink and raise
thee ? Sad soul, indeed, if it be so ! sad harmony within !
But listen inwards; turn thy ear thither and thou wilt hear
better sounds. Is it so ? Thank Heaven that thou dost find it
thus. Improve this ear, learn to have a good one in this kind
and, fear not, true harmony will follow and come on apace.
Again these chimes sound. How ? what ? Is it a musician
that strikes these notes ? Are they from immediate art, skill, and
masterly knowledge ? No, but from an engine, a piece of clock
work. What wonder then if out of tune and dissonant? wilt
thou admire this music as the common people ? What of that
other music ? wilt thou also hear keen and stand in admiration
with those same common people ? — Do so then. But imagine
that if a master or real judge of music stood by, he
would despise thee for this attention; as justly he might.
Hearken then to such as thou knowest masters. Hearken to
the great master and organist, and to those that immediately
derive from him, for as for these others what are they themselves
but mere organs, chimes, set agoing of themselves without any
inherent principle of true music, or any other than a poor
wretched imitation.
* cf. Epict. Ench., c. xxii.
68 The Philosophical Regimen.
The world says thus ; the world expects ; the world talks. —
Who is the world ? who is it when the gossips say the world ?
The town ladies, the parish wives, the servants, talking of one
another and of their masters, the neighbourhood in the country,
the farmers at the next fair or market ; which of these uses not the
word, and with the same emphasis, the world! — But where
then is this emphatical world ? what is it ? or who ? — Is it
the beau monde ? is it the court and drawing-room ? is it the
chocolate-house world ? the coffee-house world ? the quality
world or the common-people world ? the scholar world ? the
virtuoso world, or the politic, negotiating, managing, busy world ?
the foreign or the home world ? — For behold what passes
as a great story, a mighty affair in one of these worlds is just
nothing in another. Whom of these, then, or which am I to
consider ? whom or which of these will I make the world ? shall
it be the greater number, the mere people ? — See who there is that
was best served or best deserved of them either now or anciently;
and see if a good rope-dancer or prize-player be not of the two
more talked of, not to say more loved. Shall it be the managers,
the men who govern the multitude; and not the multitude
themselves ? — See, then, these managers, the politicians and
known actors in the state, the old stagers (as they call them),
those who are at the helm and have long dealt in state-affairs :
see this race; and say who are honestest, the governors or
those governed ? Are not these worse yet by some degrees ?
Are the courts or even the senates, parliaments, and public
stations, the passages to virtue and true honour, as well as
to fame, fortune, and honour of another kind ? — Vestigia nulla
retrorsum.
If they once went in honest, how are they come out ?
Where are the footsteps ? What are they changed to soon when
there ? Is this, then, the world ? Are these such as thou
wouldst approve thyself to ? Reckon them up by name, take
out from them those who mind chiefly their pleasures, or the
advancing themselves, those that act with design, private interest
or revenge, the downright corrupt and profligate, together with
the bigoted and superstitious, and see how many will be left.
Consider their lives and manners, their pursuits and aims, their
real worth and wisdom in themselves, and see whether this fine
Reputation. 69
world or that plain world be most considerable and fittest to
carry that name the world ?
At a country-meeting, a fair, or bull-baiting, there is a
greater world than here where the word astonishes, when I
hear it pronounced, the world ! There are more eyes, more
looking, more talk, more people to talk. But what people ?
Right, compare and see what difference.
The fable of the old man, boy, and ass. The censure of the
passengers ; and what this came to. Man ! keep on thy way,
what is best for thee, thy boy, and ass. Mind the road
and whither thou art going; to what place, and' on what
business. Let others mind the passengers that are idle or that
travel only for diversion. Thou hast something else to mind.
Follow those that can teach thee and that know this road ; not
those that neither know the road, nor themselves, nor have any
certain guide or rule for either.
Applause of virture in the world as accidental —
admiring not as admirable but as admired — such a one is
commended. But see for what. Is the thing itself commended
which is commendable ? Is this esteemed ? Is this beloved ?
If not, what is this but chance and accident ; and does not time
and a small change of circumstance show this to be accident, and
depend on fortune merely ? " O wondrous reputation ! rare
thing renown ! who would not purchase thee ! who would not
venture hard for thee ! " — And in very truth is it not venturing
hard to do anything for this, to bid for this, to step out of this
kind ? Is it a small matter that is thus ventured every time ?
And hast thou not thyself made this adventure at cost enough ?
— Inward repetitions, and fictions of praises, self-enconiums,
panegyrics : — extraordinary ! wonderful ! nobody like him !
The ridiculousness of this, the shame of this.
HUMAN AFFAIES.
To yap o\ov, KariSeiv ael ra av6pa>7riva, a>? tyri/mepa /ecu cvre\ij.
[" To conclude, always observe how ephemeral and worthless
human things are." — Mar. Aurel. Med., Bk. IV., § 48.]
Consider the several ages of mankind; the revolutions of
the world, the rise, declension and extinction of nations, one after
another; after what manner the earth is peopled, sometimes in
one part and then in another ; first desert, then cultivated, and
then desert again ; from woods and wilderness, to cities and
culture, again into woods ; one while barbarous, then civilized,
and then barbarous again ; after, darkness and ignorance, arts
and sciences, and then again darkness and ignorance as before.
Now, therefore, remember whenever thou art intent and
earnest on any action that seems highly important to the
world, whenever it seems that great things are in hand,
remember to call this to mind : that all is but of a moment, all
must again decline. What though it were now an age like one
of those ancient ? What though it were Rome again ? What
though it were Greece ? How long should it last ? Must not
there be again an age of darkness ? Again Goths ? And shortly,
neither shall so much as the name of Goths be remembered, but
the modern as well as ancient Greeks and Italians be equally
forgotten.
Spartans, Athenians, Thebans, Achaians, the innumerable
cities of the continent and islands, the European and Asiatic
Greeks, the commonwealth of Rome, and in Africa, Carthage, &c.,
what were these once ! and now, what ! The Morea, Turkey, the
holy Patrimony and a Land of Priests ! Nations fighting for
Mahomet; Christians of different sects warring one with
another ; doctrines, heresies, creeds, councils, synods, persecutions.
What a different face of things ! A little while hence, and this
too will be changed, and so that, and so the next; and after
many revolutions, the same over again. Nothing is new or
strange. That, that now is, after it has ceased, shall one time or
70
Human Affairs. 71
another be again ; and that, that is not now, shall in time be as
it was before. Vast and spreading commonwealths, as those of
ancient Greece, Italy, and through all the Western World. Vast
and spreading tyrannies of long duration, as those of Persia, India,
and the Eastern world. Rude and illiterate commonwealths, as
those of Gaul, Germany, the Scythians, Vandals, Goths. Polite
and learned commonwealths, as those of Greece and Rome.
Harmless rites and ceremonies of religion ; barbarous and
obscene rites ; peaceable and corresponding religions, uniting
and reconciling the world ; dark and horrid superstitions
covering the face of the world, causing wars and confusion.
Such is the state of mankind ; these are the revolutions.
The tree sprouts out of the ground, then grows, then flourishes
awhile ; at last decays and sinks, that others may come up.
Thus men succeed to one another. Thus names and families
die ; and thus nations and cities. What are all these changes
and successions ? What is there here but what is natural,
familiar, and orderly, and conducing to the whole ? Where is
the tragedy ? Where the surprise or astonishment ? Are not
these the leaves of the wood carried off with the winter blast,
that new ones may in the spring succeed ? Is not the whole
surface of the earth thus ? and are not all things thus ? Is
it not in these very changes that all those beauties consist
which are so admired in nature, and by which all but the grosser
sort of mankind are so sensibly moved ? The sum of all
this is, that be this what season soever of the world, be it
the very winter that thou livest in, or be it in the spring, all
is alike. Had it been in the full growth of letters, sciences,
arts, liberty, or what other perfection human nature in its best
state is capable of, or had it been in the autumn and decline of
all this that thou hadst lived, it amounts but to the same.
Were Rome or Sparta thy country, or hadst thou been thyself
Lycurgus or Valerius, and founded those governments, what
then ? What was all this but in order to their corruption ?
What is four or five hundred years' duration more than forty
or twenty ? or what would a thousand or ten thousand be,
supposing that things could last so long ? Is there anything
in this that can satisfy ?
What remains then but that the thing that is just, sociable,
72 The Philosophical Regimen.
and in appearance tending to the good of mankind ; that and
that alone thou shouldst intend and that perform as far as lies
in thee, without regard to what was in time past, or to what
shall be in time to come, or to what is now present in this age.
What if thou couldst at this present time set aright and in that
order what thou desirest, it could not possibly continue, or be
fixed any way, but must soon decline and have its period as
those things which have been before. All this is endless and an
abyss. To labour, therefore, and toil with anxiety and regret
about these matters, to wish that thy country were for ever
prosperous, and flourishing, and immortal : all this is stupid, and
is the proper affection of one who either is a stranger in the
world, and is ignorant of its revolutions and vicissitudes, or
who, knowing these, repines and thinks them hard, and would
correct the order of Providence. And what is such affection as
this but impiety ?
To pursue or follow anything, as greatly concerned for the
success; to promise ourselves great things; to rejoice at the
progress of affairs as going well, and then be troubled and cast
down when either they stop or go back again ; to build with
great joy and delight whilst the work succeeds, and when
anything happens ill to be in affliction and trouble for it ; to lay
schemes and designs and projects of things to come, of
reformations, changes, establishments, in a family, amongst
friends in a public, or amongst mankind : what is all this, but to
be like children making their houses of cards which they know
very well cannot stand beyond the second or third storey, and
yet when the structure perishes and the work fails under
their hand, crying, and afterwards beginning anew. But the
comparison seems too ridiculous perhaps, and is disliked.
Begin then in the first place with thy body and constitution.
Of what nature is this ? What kind of work is it, to defend
and rear, and nourish and prop this ? Dost thou promise to
thyself always to keep this sound and whole ? Will any
art keep this from being bruised and maimed and dis
tempered, and perpetually under some ill and accident or
another; always wanting to have something, or be rid of
something; always in indigence, always in distress, and under
repair ? If there be no end of this, and no security ever to be
Human Affairs. 73
obtained, where is either rest or happiness ? What is this
but toil and labour in vain ? Consider next as to a family.
Shall all here be one time or other prosperous ? Shall children,
brothers, sisters, domestics, friends, be all virtuous and act as
they should do ? How long shall this continue ? Or, how long is
it that thou expectest to have them with thee in the world, or to
have them thus orderly and virtuous, if they are thus already ?
Consider as to the public the same. What reformations dost
thou expect ? how far to extend ? for how long time to last ?
and how long will it be ere that time comes when not so much
as the name of this people shall remain ? If all this be doating,
fond, and foolish, and if all things are in a constant flux, and
alteration, always perishing and renewing, always passing, and
nothing fixed or at a stay ; if the success of what thou art so
earnestly doing, either for the health and support of thy body,
or about a family, or in the public, be all uncertain, but the
revolution, change and death of each of these be certain and
inevitable; if all this that we strive about be that which can
never be accomplished, never brought to perfection, never kept
at a stay, but be vile, rotten, and of no duration, inconsiderable
for time, for substance, for place : what then, is all this but the
houses of cards, and the passion and ardour of the children
busying themselves ? Is nothing therefore to be minded ? Is
there nothing that is important ? This certainly is, and this
only: how in the midst of all, to preserve a sound and
steady mind, a just and right affection, how to have a uniform
and suitable will, how to approve and disapprove, choose and
reject according to reason, how to act as becomes a man, as a
creature and fellow-creature, sociably, justly, piously, and how
to acquiesce and be contented.
Either that which thou art concerned for, and so much
troubled and disturbed about, is merely what relates to thy body,
and the satisfaction of those desires which have nothing in
common with virtue, or else it is what is of a generous kind
and relates to virtue and common good. If there be anything
in this thy concern which relates to a body, life, a family, an
estate, a name, a voluptuous course of living ; and that these
are what thou regardest, then is thy interest and that of the
public very opposite, and thou art yet far off from virtue or a
74 The Philosophical Regimen.
virtuous affection. If it be purely a public good and virtue
which leads thee, then surely thou hast considered of virtue,
what it is, and wherefore thou pursuest it as good. If thou
hast considered of virtue and the good of it, thou must have
learned this: that it is in a certain disposition, affection, or
will. If so, that which is not a loss, hindrance, or prejudice of
this disposition, affection, or will, is not a loss of that good
which arises from virtue. Now if anything happen ill in
human affairs, or if it be ill with mankind, this does not alter
thy disposition, affection or will, therefore, neither does it
diminish thy good or happiness.
That another person's mind should be in health is no more
necessary to my own mind, than it is necessary to my body
that any other should have his body in the same disposition.
If I am dissatisfied and troubled that any part of the world is
vicious, I may as well be dissatisfied that any one person in
the whole world should be so. In short, either my good is in
certain outward circumstances or in a mind and affection. If
I grieve that any of those around me are not as I would have
them to be, then my good is in outward circumstances. If so, how
is this virtue ? or which way shall virtue be a good ? or if not
a good how followed or pursued ?
To have a right affection and will is either a good or not so ;
if not so, then virtue is not a good to be followed. If virtue and
right affection be a good, then that only is necessary to the good
of virtue which is necessary to the support of that good and
right affection. Now, that the world be either more or less
virtuous is nothing to my affection or will, and therefore nothing
to my good. How, therefore, is this that has happened an ill ?
It is not so, in the sense of the body ; for those who regard the
body are least of all concerned for this. Neither is it an ill to
my mind, as placing its good in virtue and right affection. — But
I cannot be satisfied unless men act thus. — If such be thy
affection, it is not what virtue in any manner requires or has
need of ; nor is it of any good either to thyself or others. If not
that, then what is this but fancy and wilfulness ? For what else
is wilfulness but to will positively and without reason, or, as we
say, " to will, because we will."
Observe this temper and affection. " I must needs have such
Human Affairs. 75
an estate and such a house ; I must needs have such and such to
attend me." What is the difference between this and that other —
" I must needs have every one to be good and virtuous ? " Why
may I not as well say — " I must needs have everyone live as long
as I live ; I must needs have mankind immortal ? " All this is
of the same kind; far out of true affection, far wide of nature
and the right structure of a will. It is only wilfulness and a
bent of mind not governed by reason, or capable of any
measure or rule. For if I would be towards mankind as I ought
to be; towards nature and the whole as I ought to be; it is
enough that I will and affect rightly myself, and that this should
be all my care and concern. But if this do not satisfy me, and
if this be not my end, what is the difference between being
bent on a certain constitution or structure of mankind, or on
a certain building like that of wood or stones ? What is the
difference between the fancy of constituting a family or common
wealth, or that of modelling and disciplining an army ? What
is the difference between aiming at having a fine and splendid
country, or a fine and splendid house ?
If to affect the public good be virtue ; and that the conse
quence of affecting thus, be to be disturbed and afflicted in ill-
success ; then is virtue its own torment and not its own reward.
If it be true that virtue is its own reward, and that all that
virtue seeks is to be virtue ; what would I have more than this,
that my affection be as it ought to be ?
If knowing that my country is at the end of a thousand years
to be extinct I refuse on that account to act for it, through
discontent ; I am mad and extravagant. If I can notwithstand
ing act with content, knowing that it shall not last beyond
a thousand years; why not as well, though it last but for a
hundred ? or why not the same, though but till next year ?
What though the age be illiterate or superstitious, or like
to grow so more and more; how long was the last in that
condition, and how many such ages must again and again pass
in a few periods and in a small and inconsiderable portion of the
revolutions of the world ? What though the next age recover
from superstition ; what if virtue prevail ; and that again there
appear men, such as may be truly called so ; how soon must this
decline again, and superstition and barbarity arise as before ?
76 The Philosophical Regimen.
Therefore when either thou art setting thyself to any work
that seems considerable in the public or to the promotion of
virtue ; or whenever thou sittest down to read anything ancient,
especially what has relation to philosophy, remember this — -all
was darkness, but a while since, now there is a little glimmering
of light, and whether this proceed or no, in a little while all will
be again dark. What though the philosophers be oddly repre
sented, and their history imperfect, mixed and corrupted, ill
written, and worse understood ? what though Laelius, Cato,
Thrasea, Helvidius, Agripinus and such as these be unknown ?
what though Socrates and Diogenes be forgotten, or most
ridiculously represented ? These were such as were not con
cerned for this themselves. Why art thou concerned ? Hercules,
Theseus, Cadmus, were long since become fables ; though they
perhaps were excellent men in their age. And now many things
which were in those days, are grown wholly out of memory and
are lost. So also in what relates to those others mentioned, their
affairs are now in a manner grown fabulous and obsolete, and in
a little time neither shall the name of Socrates, or Epictetus or
Marcus, remain. Again barbarity, again Goths.
Go then, and in this disposition have recourse to the ancients
and what remains of them ; and make use of this gift of Provi
dence, gratefully, thankfully, and contentedly; as having received
the rules, and obtained these precepts, by which without more
ado thou mayst be happy. If either these things or these men
be unknown, or undervalued, or destroyed ; if either now, or a
while hence, or sooner, or later, there be ignorance and barbarity:
all this is the same ; all must revolve in this manner. And, at
what revolutions of the world thou art present, how long the
spaces shall be, how soon either such or such things shall again
return and prevail : all this is indifferent. And now if thou canst
stand thus affected towards these matters, if thou apprehendest
the thing never otherwise than thus ; then neither shalt thou be
disturbed or shocked when anything in the public succeeds not ;
or when philosophy is traduced, or slighted by those that are
ignorant.
Remember that as men are constituted, they cannot stand
otherwise towards virtue and philosophy than as they do : that
is to say, they of necessity must both curse it and praise it. Be
Human Affairs. 77
not therefore lightly and foolishly raised by the praises of those
that at another time must curse. Neither be concerned at the
curses of those who, by the same necessity, must praise again,
and at some other time admire.
He that is impatient and cannot bear with the world, such
as it is, does not consider how often he himself is intolerable, and
that if the world were to be reformed and become as perfect as
he requires it to be, it were not fit that such a creature as he
should live in it.
If thou art thyself such as thou shouldst be, what need is
there of more ? If thou art weak and unable to bear with
things, why not reform thyself rather than the world, since the
one is practicable, the other mere extravagance ?
Remember what has been said concerning the folly
and stupidity of those reasonings about the duration of things.
What is it to thee whether the ancients be remembered or
not ? Whether their manners and government, whether liberty,
generous sentiments, or philosophy be restored for a while and
flourish for one age or two, as then ? Is it to last for ever ?
Must not other things prevail and have their course ? Must not
superstition, barbarity, darkness and night succeed again in their
turns ? Is not this the order of things ? Is not this the chorus,
the seasons, the summer and winter, day and night ? But I
would have no winter here, no night. — See the stupidity of this.
But if there must be winter, if there must be night, what is it to
me, when or for how long ? And what should I do but commit
this to Him who has appointed the seasons of the world, as is
most conducing, and as was necessary, for the safety, happiness
and prosperity of the whole ?
After this manner this one dogma is sufficient (and remember
to have it in readiness) : either the race of mankind is eternal or
not eternal. If eternal, what though the intervals, instead of one
age, were a thousand ? If not eternal, what signifies it how soon
any one thing ceases, since all of this kind must cease within a
little ? Either periods, and then that which is not now, will be,
at some other time ; and so again and again, after many changes
and revolutions, and thus to perpetuity. Or else one period
that puts an end to all ; and if so, where is the harm ? What is
there more in the death of a whole race than of one single
78 The Philosophical Regimen.
animal ? Fear not, the whole is not likely to suffer. Nor canst
thou suffer, if thou art towards the whole as thou oughtst to be.
What is there, then, to fear ? and for whom ?
Whenever the fancy is strongly at work about the ancients
and reviving something or other of that kind, remember that
these things are already come to their period. The day is spent
and only a twilight remains. Something else may arise in
after ages, but that must be a new thing, and from new seeds.
This stock that thou wouldst graft upon is decayed and sunk.
Are not the laws, manners, customs, rites, abolished and sunk ?
Are not the languages dead ? or how preserved ? in what books ?
what fragments ? how corrupted, and every day growing more
so ? Or what if the books remain a while longer ; who are the
readers ? What has been the reason that either of the languages
have been so long preserved ? and what is now become of the
first and noblest ?
Therefore all those other thoughts are senseless. — Romans !
Greeks ! Fables, tales, obsolete stories. Tell us of some late war ;
the history of our kings; matches between crowns; titles,
pretensions, nobility, barons, counts, dukes, palatines; church
affairs, Reformations, Protestant and Papist, Turk and Christian.
This is our present foundation ; these are the affairs that concern
the world. But, as for Greeks and Romans, what are they, and
how do these names sound ? Remember this as often as thou
appliest to anything of the ancients and their story, and see that
thou art not elevated, nor, by yielding at first, be afterwards
transported and hurried away. For what is this but building
a foundation for disturbance, and accusation of Providence ?
If I am contented that the ancients should have been but
are not ; if I am contented that the ancients should have been
ancients, and the moderns, moderns; if it be indifferent to me
when these remaining books perish, which must perish within a
very little time ; if it be enough to me that I have that which
serves to guide and conduct me in life, knowing that all depends
upon myself: in this disposition I may safely read, otherwise
I may perchance learn other matters and improve in other ways ;
but (what is most absurd and ridiculous) I shall unlearn that for
the sake of which I read, and for which alone I have recourse to
the ancients.
Human Affairs. 79
If it be a certain sort of pleasure that engages and ties thee
to the ancients, set aside the library, for it is plain, this is but
little better than romances (for these too are read for pleasure
and serve for discourse and entertainment). If it be for the
benefit of thy mind, and the sake of a certain philosophy,
remember what that philosophy taught and what those persons
themselves said of this matter, and what they would say (if
now present) to one thus anxious and thus concerned for their
memory and fame. Man ! what is this to thee ? Either thou
knowest those principles to be true and art satisfied in thy own
reason concerning them, or not. If not satisfied, what is it thou
admirest or seekest ? If satisfied, let us hear, concerning what ?
— That the universe is justly administered, that the things
belonging to me are in my own power ; the rest nothing. — But
how, therefore, are these ancients a concern ? They are extinct.
Let them be so. Were they not to die at some time or another ?
Was it not necessary that they themselves should first die, and
shortly after their memories ? Or what if their memory die not
as yet, must it not die at another time ? What difference
whether now or then ? Where is the harm of this, or of any of
those other deaths or changes ? Whose opinion shall we take as
to this matter ? Theirs or the vulgar ? What is fame, therefore,
in their opinion ? What are changes and successions, the decay
and perishing of men, and memories of men ?
Remember, therefore, either this that I have learned is
an idle story, and so the ancients are nothing, or, if I am
convinced of anything, it is of this : That ancients and
moderns are all alike ; for, this is no concern of mine, or in
my power.
Remember that of Marcus applied in another way: —
Kaff eTepov fj.ev \6yov ffiJ.lv G<TTLV OIKCIOTCITOV av6pco7ro$. — [Medita
tions, Bk. V., § 20.] In one nothing can be more near to me
than men (and especially these men). But in another respect
(viz. : as they are mortal, as they must yield to time, as they must
give place to others that arise, as they must accomplish, destroy,
and make good the laws of the universe) they are no more to me
than is the sun or air ; no more than are any of those things
that are every day converted and changed by the sun or air,
which at some other time, if so the universe requires, may also
80 The Philosophical Regimen.
themselves be converted and changed. And what else do I
require? what other economy do I favour? what interest should
prevail besides the interest of the whole ? Such therefore are
the laws of the whole, such the establishment, such the order.
Would I invade or overturn this ? — God forbid.
What is it thou art thus eager after. Let us see. How
wouldst thou order things, if the world were at thy disposal, and
to be governed by thy fancy ? Wouldst thou have the same age
continue, and not give place to other ages ? Wouldst thou that
the same men should always live, or that in their room such others
should always arise ? Wherein the greatness of this character ? —
He obeyed the voice of the Deity, adhered to reason alone,
rejected the vulgar opinions, and through the needs of ignorance,
discovered truth. — But, what if there had been no preceding
ignorance ? where had been the greatness of the discovery ? how
had he been the light of the age? What if there had been
no vulgar opinions ; no sophists ; no vicious or corrupt
Athenians; no tyrranical oligarchy, nor licentious democracy;
no Anytus or Melitus ; no prison or poison, or death ? Make
us another history. Show us a Socrates without these ;
see what picture thou wouldst make. — But, why those shades ?
Remove the shades then ; remove the darker colours. See how
it will be, consider how in that other picture. How is it then
that thou wouldst have changed this ? what wouldst thou have
amended of what then was ? But this is gone and past. Right,
how should it be otherwise ? Wouldst thou have the same to
happen over again ? Must the same piece be acted again, to give
satisfaction, and so the same things be produced again and
again ? See what the world would be at this rate ? where would
be the changes, succession, order ? Who can endure so much as in
a play that the same scene should come again and again, or the
same parts remain ? What would that theatre be, which could
afford but one piece, and represented it always the same ? Consider,
then : what is magnanimity and what is that which occasions it,
proves it, and raises it ? What is it that shows the force of
reason ? what is the exercise and trial of a mind ? What else
but circumstances, these very circumstances: vice, ignorance,
false opinions ? What is it that makes the hero ? and how was
Hercules great but for the hydras, monsters, tyrannies he had to
Human Affairs. 81
deal with ? How therefore should there be a Socrates, but no
Anytus ? how* a Hercules, but no hydra ?
But I would have all men to be alike and to resemble these
generous ones, these leaders, these of a distinguished make and
mould. I would have all like these and the whole herd be such ;
not merely a single man ; not a few only at one season ; not so
as to appear a while and then disappear again. What is this,
but to say as the silly sort of people: I would have it to be
always spring, no autumn, no winter ? Go into a wood, and
when thou hast singled out some tall and stately tree, the chief
beauty and ornament of the grove, say, I would have no shrubs
nor brambles. How then should this be a wood ? In what way
preserve that beauty, which is proper to a wood ? where would
be that grace and comeliness of the whole ? where the comeliness
and majesty of the principal tree ? How therefore wouldst thou
order this in that greater whole ? how dispose the several ranks
and degrees ? Should all be vegetable, no sand, no stone ? But
vegetables excel mere stone and other such matter — right.
Therefore let us throw these out of our picture ; let all be roses,
flowers, and verdure; no rock, or sand, or moss; no ancient
trunk, no decayed or rotten boughs. Well, but are not sensible
creatures above vegetables ? — They are. How then ? Should all
therefore be sensible creatures ? no vegetables ? no forest ? Or
should all be rational creatures, and no herd; or, amongst
rational creatures, should all be rational to the degree of
Socrates, and no vulgar, no herd ?
All this is stupid and senseless. But suppose, now, that
one age was as it should be, must every age be alike, and
produce a Socrates, or such as those who succeeded him ?
Must not seasons also differ from one another? Must there
be nothing more eminent at one time than another? Must
the grove have still one and the same face ? Must there
be no periods, no revolutions, no autumn, no winter ? — But
the winter landscape is not so beautiful. — To thee perhaps
not ; but in some respect is it not equally so ? Is it not
equally good and beautiful in the whole ? What if it be the
winter of arts and sciences ? What if even the winter and decay
* Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c vi., § 32.
82 The Philosophical Regimen,
of mankind? Is it ever winter in the whole? Is not the
universe always new and entire and flourishing ? Does not
all tend to the prosperity and welfare of that? And is not
everything suitable to the perfection of that mind which
presides and governs it ? — But these changes and vicissitudes do
not please me, nor can I find the beauty of them. — See, then,
what idea or apprehension thou hast of beauty and agreeableness
in other things ; and whether the chief est beauties, the chief est
graces arise not from change and vicissitude. What is music ?
What is one note prolonged ? Nothing more dissonant and
odious. But seek the changes and vicissitudes, and those
too the most odd and various ones; and here it is where
harmony arises. Mix even a dissonance after a certain manner
and the music is still more excellent; and in the management
of these dissonances is the sublime of the art. What is
dance but a like succession of motions diversified, of which
not one single one would continue graceful if viewed by
itself and out of this change, but which taken as they are
joined together and depending on one another, form the
highest grace imaginable. Such, therefore, is that other chorus
and harmony ; such is the dance (like what the poets feign) of
the hours and days ; such are the seasons, ages, revolutions of the
world ; the flourishing and decline of mankind ; the nations that
arise and sink; the inventions, languages, letters, arts, sciences,
rites, mysteries, manners, customs, laws, governments ; and in the
midst of this ore, sometimes a vein of purer kind, sometimes a
season of more than ordinary knowledge and light, sometimes a
more than common production : an effort of Nature (as we may
properly speak with relation to any particular nature) carrying
things to the highest pitch and producing sometimes a body
of more than ordinary stature and perfection, like that of a Milo,
so at other times a mind such as the mind of Socrates. Why is it
more unnatural that this should decline again, than that the breed
of bodies should decline ? If it be ridiculous, considering the body
and make of man, to wonder that all men should not be as Milo,
and not rather that anyone of such strength as Milo should have
been known ; how much more ridiculous is it, considering such
an animal as man, and what he holds of the brute, to wonder
that he should so often resemble the brute; and not rather
Human Affairs. 83
wonder that he should find out his other relation and be a God ?
For, what else is he, who, being conscious of the Divine Govern
ment, accompanies it and joins himself to it ? How ridiculous
is it, considering man such as he truly is, to wonder that such
and so many parts of the earth should be barbarian and savage,
and not rather that there should have been other nations so
wise, knowing, and polite ? Why wonder at the huts and cabins
of Indians, and not rather at the cities, manners, and government
of other nations ? Why at other governments more imperfect,
and not rather at the perfection of such a one as Sparta ?
Consider, therefore, for what is all this concern ? Is it for
the world, or for thyself ? If for the world, fear not, the world
will be governed as it should be, nor can anything there go
amiss. If it be for thyself this is thy own work, and in thy
own power, nor can anything here go amiss, if thou thyself
pleasest. See, therefore, that thy affection be but right, and all
is right. But, if thou wishest either for times or seasons or
places ; if thou wouldst correct the order of the world, and have
things to be other than they are ; thy affection is wrong, and in
the midst of all this reading and this pursuit of philosophy, thou
art thyself no better than an idiot.
Beware never to compound with any of those thoughts
concerning human affairs, as if likely to be more prosperous, as
if the age were to be restored, antiquity again acted; other
Dions, other Phocions, other Catos, other Academys, another
Porch, and whatever dreams of this kind thou art used to fall
into, on reading anything ancient. Instead of this, suppose
everything the most contrary. Take always the reverse : nations
such as the Goths; monarchies such as the Persian and other
Eastern ones; superstitions such as Egyptian, &c. Consider all of
that other kind as extinct, and so ever to remain. For if once
the o/oeff9 [desire] be towards reviving anything of this kind ; if
once thou dost begin building and laying foundations, there is no
end. And if it happens thou art encouraged by some imaginary
success, the thing grows worse ; the right and steady views are
more and more lost, and the affairs of the world not answering
these other narrow, fond and mistaken views, nature is sure to be
accused ; many things complained of, many lamented, the world
pitied, mankind pitied, thou thyself pitied. All is full of calamity,
84 The Philosophical Regimen.
all wretched, poor, disastrous, ruinous ; for so in reality all is, with
respect to thyself, whilst thy mind is in this state, and thy thoughts
such as these. In what way can this be otherwise, whilst thou
affectest that which is out of thy power and not belonging
to thee ? whilst thou affectest otherwise than as nature affects ?
whilst thou thinkest anything excellent, but what the inind and
wisdom of the whole judges to be so ? If the wisdom of the whole
would have it thus, I also would have it thus, and not otherwise.
If otherwise, I am no longer free ; I am no longer that generous
and exalted mind, which aims at that which is excellent, at
that which is best ; which aims so as not to be frustrated, but
always successful and prosperous ; which is never constrained,
never unwillingly submits to Deity, never merely submits but
accompanies and applauds. But how accompany or how
applaud that to which I am not perfectly reconciled ? that
which I think sad and dismal, severe or hard ? How is it,
therefore, when I esteem any of these changes severe or hard ?
How is it when either plagues or earthquakes, or any of those
other things ruinous to mankind, appear thus ? How if the loss
of letters or sciences be feared, or anything of this kind which
may happen in the world, be looked upon as sad and grievous,
where will my freedom be ? Where my applause ? How shall
I be pious ? how generous ? how unhappy ? Or, if I am
miserable, and tremble, and am dejected, what signifies it what
the subject is ? Am I less a slave ? am I less mean ?
Resolve, therefore, never to allow anything to such thoughts
but introduce always their contraries. Consider the fall, death,
extinction of the ancients ; themselves long since, and now their
memories ; or if of this kind something still remain, it is about
to perish ; oblivion is at hand. Why not now, as well as a little
later ? But must there nothing of this kind arise again in time ?
— Perhaps never, or if ever, not till after many changes and
revolutions ; perhaps millions of ages ere the same again ; first
Greece, as before Socrates, then Socrates and followers. How
many ages ere such a nation, such a language be formed as that
of Greece ? And afterwards how long amidst physiologers and
sophists ? How many ages ere a certain superstition sink ?
What if the age remain still as it is ? What though it be yet
worse, and that hereafter all be barbarous, as in those other
Human Affairs. 85
nations ? What though even this remain not, but that the
whole earth be depopulated ? But must the world, then, perish
thus ? — What world ? Mankind. So that the world, then, is
this one kind or species ; if this kind be lost, the world is lost.
If this animal lose its intelligence, there will be no more
intelligence in the universe. How ? Will there be no nature,
no elements, no conversion, change or renewal of things, no new
or different forms arising, nothing remaining of what was
before ? No sun, no planets, no heavenly bodies ? Or, though
these remain, shall we say, however, that there are no
iiitelligencies or minds remaining ? Are human bodies of such
kind that intelligence is confined to these, and can nowhere
lodge besides ? What if a worm should happen to have
intelligence, would he not reason better ?
But I know men, and other intelligences I know nothing
of. So, hadst thou been a worm, thou hadst conferred only with
worms, and must it have followed that there were no wiser
beings, no men, no Deities, or Supreme Deity ? If it be true
that there is such a supreme and sovereign mind, and that all is
according to that mind, then all is right. Why talk to us of
other minds ? What matter is it where they reside, and how
the sovereign mind has disposed them ; whether in these bodies,
or in the others ; whether at one time rather than at another ?
If thou hast a mind thyself, be thankful that it has fallen to
thee ; make the use of it that thou shouldst do, and this is
enough. What is it to thee that other portions of matter of the
same form have it or have it not ? That of the many other
thou knowest only one particular species has it ? Or that
amongst these only a few have it, and this only at certain times
and in certain periods ? Why not lament because the beasts
are sensible only and not rational ? Why not because the
plants are only vegetative, and neither sensible nor rational ?
Why not this as well as to lament that man is not otherwise
rational than as nature has made him to be, and that this species
seldom can afford a mind.* Is it not much it ever could afford
*"Ort 8e TOIOVTOV e^veyKav KapTrbv ev avdpcairivr] aiavoia. [But because
they (the gods) have produced in the human mind that fruit. — Epict.
Disc., Bk. L, c. iv., § 32.]
86 The Philosophical Regimen.
one ? Is it not much that in such a body, such senses, such
engagements to a low and brutal part there should be a way left
to liberty, magnanimity, and a mind, such as can know its
origin, and be one with that supreme mind of the whole ?
Therefore, remember thy privilege and advantage : what it
is to have a mind ; and that as for all those thoughts, concerning
what shall become of the world or of the age, all this is senseless,
and to think after this manner is in reality to be without a
mind*
Again.1 — See of what nature those impressions are that are
made from outward things and the circumstances of the world !
But a little while since, when thou hadst retired to thy studies, and
thy thoughts were employed on those latter ages, the people and
men of those times, and on the affairs of mankind and of the
world in general, thou hadst little or no concern (more than what
was right) for those poorer and more inconsiderable interests of
home occasions, household and family businesses, town and
country affairs, no not even for that which is called thy country,
in the largest, vulgar sense. So little was all this, and even the
whole state of Europe and of the world, as it now stands in
comparison with what it once was, when learning, virtue,
philosophy, flourished, and liberty was known and enjoyed. It
was with respect to those more glorious times that all the regret
and trouble arose. It was here the shocks were strongest. It
was philosophy, liberty, ancients.
Of late it has happened that reading has been set aside.
Other duties called : the care of a father, brother, sister, a
family, servants. Now, it is here again that disturbance arises ;
here are the present hindrances, the crosses, disappointments,
re-jolts; and from those of the other sort thou art free. Now,
what can be more mean and poor ? — that thou shouldst thus be
cured of one of these dispositions by the other, and yet not by
reason ! Dost thou not see that thou art not only a slave to the
present, but a slave in reserve too to those other things by that
time thou hast broken again from these present masters, to
return to those ? How comes it that all is not at present as it
*This when in Holland, from July, 1688, to April, 1689.
!St. Giles, Dec., 1699.
Human Affairs. 87
was but some months since with relation to these affairs ?
Hadst thou not a family then as now ? the same friends,
relations, country, as now ? and was not the care and concern
the same ? But it was not an anxious care, it was then as it
ought to be. These things were little, narrow, poor, vile, and
perishing. And are they changed since then ? Is it not still
barbarity, Goths. Or, what thinkest thou now at this present
of titles — nobility, barons, counts, now that thou art placed
amongst them ? l Are they become new things ? Are the
ancients out of date ? Are these the only times, the only men ?
Is lineage or family a concern ? Is the State a concern ? Was
it to have been so, though thou hadst lived even then and in
those governments ? How therefore, even now and in these ?
But, wilt thou not set aside the thoughts both of those and these ?
Wilt thou not remember another family, in which thou art
included ? Another state and magistracy, and other economy,
other laws, another birth and derivation ?* What thou art worthy
of, and what are the things beneath thee ?
If these things sink away in thy memory and the
impressions of those other prevail, if thou canst not be present
at once with these things and with those, it remains, then, either
that thou shouldst wholly retire, or, in the phrase of a pious
writer, be present as though not present, act as though not
acting, use as though not using : but as one concerned about
another use, the attention being still elsewhere and to other
things, firmly fixed, never suspended, never interrupted by any
attention to ought else. And if other matters cannot be carried
on upon these terms ; if this lower degree of attention will not
serve for outward things ; if on this account there be less ability,
less dexterity, less management (as needs must where there
is less presence of mind): be it so. Thou canst do no better,
and this is as it should be; for it is not thy design to quit
thy chief part for any other ; or for the esteem of such as these,
to lose all esteem with God and with thyself.
Observe how that no sooner does the mind set itself to
reform or bring anything in order in outward affairs (a house,
1 Shaftesbury became an Earl in 1699.
* cf. Epict. Ench.y c. xiii.
88 The Philosophical Regimen.
family, public, relation, friend,) but straightway an earnest
ness and hope arises; and a certain perfection in the thing
managed (not the management) is that which is aimed at and
becomes the end. This is the ope£i? [desire]. Here it perpetually
grows. Hence frustration, loss, disturbance ; and how should it
be otherwise whilst this perfection is dreamt of and the bent is
hitherward ? Is this the perfection to be sought after ? Are
these the subjects of such a bent and application ? Is not all
this ruinous, and never to be made otherwise ? Yet see what
fancy makes of it when once thou settest about any of these
things with any earnestness or remarkable intention ? What
perfections ! What projects for duration and stability ! What
proposals ! What ends !
How therefore trust thyself ? how venture out to reforma
tions, settlements, economies ? See the danger of this, see what
every moment occurs in the least things. Therefore begin (as*
ordered) at the least things. Is it a plant thou cherishest ?
Remember it is a plant, the seasons must injure it ; it must wither,
it must die. Is it another plant (a human one), a servant, child ?
Is it not the same ? Must not the seasons have power over it ?
the age, customs, manners, opinions ? Must it not partake of the
common distemper ? Or wouldst thou KaKiav M em: KCLKIGLV [have
badness not to be badness, Epict. Encli., c. xiv.]. If not, then
what are these but 717)09 KaOdp/mara [suitable for outcasts] ? What
art thou rectifying. Opinions? — No, for they will still retain
their own. — How then should they act, but according to these ?
what fruit should they bear but according to their stock ? Is it
not ridiculous to look for other ? Change the stock, engraft other
opinions. — I cannot. — Then suffer the plant to bear as is natural
to it, and be not angry that the bramble should be the bramble
and not the rose.
But why are there no more roses ? — This is not the season, let
that content thee. When it is good for the universe, the universe
will in due season produce them again. In the meanwhile, be
thou the rose, and instead of murmuring, admire that at such a
season of the world, any sound opinions should have fallen to
thy share, and that it should have been in thy power to produce
* Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. viii., and c. xvii., §11.
Human Affairs. 89
any fruit of that kind. Me'ya? 6 9eo<?, &c. — Epict. Disc., Bk. I.,
c. xvi., § 17.
Remember the aloes plant (which thou didst see in
Holland), of which not one in a hundred makes a shoot ;
nor that one perhaps in a hundred years. But then, how
vast, how mighty a plant ! Remember this when thou thinkest
of Socrates or any such, and say not of the age why does it not
produce oftener ? For this is being angry at the aloes. Fool !
dost thou understand the nature of the aloes ? or (what is far-
more) dost thou understand the nature of the whole ?
Observe the course of attention1 as applied to human
affairs : how from the suspending the attention of one sort, the
other attention prevails, so as to cut off the retreat to that first ;
from a small attention at first, to an earnest application with
hope and desire; from thence to a general scheme and plan of
affairs, contriving, building, setting out ; and from hence an idea
of symmetry, order, perfection. In what ? 'Et/ roiovTca ovv fo'^w
KOI pvirca KOI TOcravTf] pvarei Trj<? TC ovtrtas, &c. [In such darkness
then and dirt, and in so constant a flux. — Mar. Aur. Med., Bk. V.,
§ 10]. Where is the symmetry, order or proportion, that can be
given to things of this kind ? How can they take this form which
thou wouldst have them take ? To seek for order or settlement
here, is it not to break (as far as in thee lies) the symmetry,
order, and disposition of the whole ? Is not the course of things
contrariwise ? Is not this against the habit and the constitution
of the whole ? What an imperfection, what a deformity, what a
ruin (oh, profane and impious man !) wouldst thou be author of,
shouldst thou be able to bring to pass that other imaginary
perfection and draw the whole of things to thy model and
design ?
Why fearful of any event? If it be not according to the
laws of thy first and greatest country ; if it be not for the good
of the whole and according to the economy and order of the
whole ; be sure it will never happen. If it be in accord there
with ; what else wouldst thou have happen ?
1 Attention is here applied in the stoical sense.
NECESSITY.
If anything now acting or formerly acted in the world,
grieve and disturb thee (as the ruin of Greece, a Lysander, an
Alcibiades, a Demades, a Phillip, a Caesar, Pharsalia, Philippi,
Praetorian band, Goths, superstitions), and if thy passion and
bent be to remedy and correct what is of this kind, remember : —
(1) How vain and ridiculous the thing is itself, considering
the vastness of time and substance — the abyss before and after —
the fleeting generations of men and other beings, waves of the
sea, leaves, grass, the perpetual change and conversion of things
one into another.
(2) That this was necessary, from causes necessary, arid
(whether Providence or atoms) could be thus only, and could not
have been otherwise.
(3) That this is not only what was necessary, but what
was best, since the mind or reason of the universe cannot act
against itself ; and what is best for itself, itself surely best
knows. What I know and am assured of, is, that if it be best
for the whole, it is what should have been, and is perfect, just
and good, — But this is not best for men ; how knowest thou
this ? Knowest thou all former ages of men and all to come ?
the connection of causes and how they operate ? the relations of
these to those ? the dependence and consequences ? how it shall
be with mankind at one time, and how at another ? But what
if it were ill for mankind ; is it therefore ill for the whole ? Or
ought the interest and good of the whole to give way, be set
aside, or passed, for such a creature as man and his affairs ?
Are the laws of the universe on this account to be annulled, the
government of the universe subverted, and the constitution
destroyed ? For thus it must be, if any one cause be removed ;
and thus the whole (which is one concatenation), must
necessarily be rendered imperfect, and hence totally perish.
What if a Solon or Lycurgus had said be it thus, wouldst
90
Necessity. 91
thou have resisted his will ? Would thou have withstood the
legislator ? Wouldst thou have broken his model for the sake
of some one thing that thou perhaps mightst fancy better ?
Or wouldst thou have presumed to have stopped so much as
for one moment the promulgation and sanction of those laws on
which the welfare of Athens or Sparta depended ?
But what is Athens or Sparta compared with this other
city ? What is Solon or a Lycurgus in respect of that other
law-giver ? And darest thou yet murmur ? Barest thou yet
repine ? Quicquid corrigere est nefas [what is a crime to
amend. — Horace, Bk. I., Ode 24.] And, knowing this, wilt thou
still meditate remedies, and correct what is passed ? Now,
instead of this, see what thy part, and remember the *precept
given. For, were we to go back so as to act over again that
which is passed, being conscious as we now are of what the ruler
has willed, our part would be to will the very same and to
co-operate even towards those very things which at present are
against nature, and which it is our part to strive against. If I
were conscious (says f Epictetus) of what was decreed me, and
could be certain of what were to happen before it happened, I
would will that and that only ; suppose it sickness ; suppose it
infamy; suppose it death. At present, since I know not the
utmost will of nature, I pursue the design and intention of it, as
in my particular nature is shown me ; I repel injury ; I decline
sickness ; I decline untimely and violent death. But if I knew
how this was to be controlled ; if I knew what else was
appointed : I would turn to this ; and this should be the object
of my aim ; this I would affect, and nothing but this. But (says
one) it may thus happen, that I may also will that I be wicked.
Not if there were a possibility left of its being any otherwise ;
but if no possibility, I will however be pious and good (that
is to say I will be happy) as long as is allowed me, as long
as I possibly can be so. If I cannot be so the moment that
follows, at least I will remain so this present moment that
precedes, and will join my applause to what God has for the best
decreed. For to will against that which is best, and to will
* Epictetus Disc., Bk. II., c. x., § 5.
t In the words of Chrysippus, Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. vi., § 9.
92 The Philosophical Regimen.
what is impossible, what else were this but to be wicked and
miserable ? Now that every creature should seek its good and
not its misery, is necessary in itself ; nor can it be supposed the
will of God that a creature should do otherwise than thus, for
this is contradictory and consequently impossible even with God.
So that my will towards virtue is irrefragable and immutable ;
but towards life, death, poverty, riches, and all other exterior
things it is variable upon occasion. And I am ready to will any
of these, not merely when necessary and unavoidable, but when
it depends still upon my own will whether it shall be thus or
not.
Where, therefore, is it that I place the good of man ?
Where else but in his will ? If it be so constituted as to
receive whatever is sent, all is well ; if it resist, there it is that
calamity arises. And thus wickedness and misery have the
same foundation. But, if I separate these, and think misery one
thing and vice another ; if I think piety and virtue may live one
way and happiness another; if I suppose either pleasure or
riches, or life, or any outward thing to be my good, and find
myself deprived of these, disappointed, urged, constrained, where
will be my piety ? In what way can I acquiesce in that which
is my ill ? In what way can I will against my good ?
See what it is to wish earnestly against anything that is
likely to happen, whatever it be (as either loss of fame, friends,
family, or country). For suppose that according to the course of
things, it shall happen contrary to thy wish (the scheme of
nature and the universal design being perhaps contrary to thy
own scheme and particular design) wouldst thou undo this if in
thy power ? wouldst thou wish it should otherwise happen than
as supreme goodness has ordered it ? Or, is it not supreme
goodness that orders ? Ask thyself but this question, and see if
thou canst go on with such a head-strong desire and propensity,
such an o/oef*? [desire] or eWXto-t? [aversion] as this. For, either
thou must determine against goodness in the whole, or be an
enemy to that goodness and to the prosperity of the whole, as
well as to thy own prosperity, by being like one of those slavish
people that refuse liberty when offered them. But, be thou as
unlike such as is possible areavTov Traovy? w/oa? e*Y eXevOeplav, /xera
TOV ei}/xei/a>9, /ecu avrXa)?, /ecu* aiSrjfji6i>a)$ [by forming thyself hourly
Necessity. 93
to freedom conjoined with benevolence, simplicity, and modesty.
—Mar. Aurel, Med., Bk. VIII., § 51.]
Consider whether, in a wise and just commonwealth, thou
hast at any time abhorred sedition, faction, tumult, disobedience
to the laws and contempt of the law-giver and founder ; whether
thou hast at any time detested insolent and rude behaviour
towards a magistracy, sullen and stubborn behaviour towards
parents. Consider if there be in nature any impiety, any
sacrilege, and then think of what a nature it is to murmur and
repine at what happens in the universe, or (what is the same)
to be concerned and tremble for what is likely to happen, and
seems stated and determined already in the order of things.
Return now, therefore, to the same thoughts as before on
the folly and stupidity of those reasonings about the duration
of things ; about ancients, governments, empires, summer,
winter. How ridiculous to wish, hope, apprehend, forebode,
decline, incline variously and anxiously in these affairs, when at
the same time so far from knowing what is best. I mean not
what is universally best (for as to that there is nothing to
doubt), but what is particularly so, for this or that part of
things for which thou art so particularly concerned.
First, then, what a shame to wish against the whole and
against that general good and universal, highest, greatest,
noblest interest ! And what folly too ! Since this interest must
and will prevail, whether thou art willing or not willing, pleased
or not pleased.
In the next place, what shame and folly to wish this way
and that way, for and against things as turning and guiding
them to and again, when thou knowest not what would be the
consequence. Or if thou knewest that such or such an end would
be compassed, thou knowest not then which way to turn, or
after all couldst thyself answer that one poor question, and what
then ?
What wouldst this empire produce ? Or if not one
empire, but a balance, what would even this produce ? What
did the balance of Greece produce when evenest ? what did
an Athens and Sparta ? Will the people be even better ? Shall
we have a juster or more virtuous than the one ; a politer, more
civilized, than the other ? Can there come an empire of greater
94 The Philosophical Regimen.
power than that of Rome ? or emperors better than some of
those who governed successively for a certain time ? And yet
how was it even at that time ? And what followed afterwards ?
— Praetorian band ; empire by auction ; destruction, prey, ravage ;
arts, letters, sciences perishing; misery, superstition, anarchy,
barbarity, Goths. See on the other side Thucydides and his state
of Greece, and yet what better ? What more to be expected or
hoped than what he represents? What better state of liberty,
of letters, arts, sciences, philosophy and virtue than in that and
the next succeeding age ?
But be it so. I would have this age again, this situation of
affairs, this face of things. And how knowest thou what that is
which may soonest bring it on ? or bring on what is best or
likest to this state, the best thou knowest ? How knowest thou
whether the present hasty growth of the power1 thou fearest, as
universal monarchy coming on, may not be the best means
of breaking it ? and whether a present check may not
perhaps give it a stronger though slower growth over man
kind ? or that this attempt so easily crushed may not
give greater caution to a new attempter, and a better
occasion of oppressing the world less apprehensive of such a
power and thinking it time enough to confederate when it is too
late ? What of such a Prince as the present Suede, had he known
a Xenophon, or been bred as Alexander, or Caesar ? What a use
could be made of modern religion did a leader know the use of it,
yet free and unentangled by it ? What a foundation for military
virtue, and an empire ; were discipline known ? How much
mischief from the best causes ? What uncertainties ! what opera
tions of causes ! what contrariety of effects ! How wish ? how
hope ? how prescribe or dictate to Providence ? what present
state ? what future ? what change in governments ? what in
religion ? what as to these Gothic models in either ? How knowest
thou how the rise or fall of a certain superstition may operate ?
whether it be best it should fall or not fall ? in part, or altogether ?
whether it can stand in part, if not altogether ? — How has the
Greek language been preserved hitherto, and to what must it still
be owing ? — Destruction of letters by the Ottomans, Mahomet,
1 France.
Necessity. 95
Believers. What from that seed scattered? What from that
military and spiritual joint-power, if once a great prince or two
successively ? What of the Jews, if again collected ? — the power
of such a mark as circumcision, their numbers, other nations
circumcised, a Messias conqueror, a new Cyrus, Christian or
Jewish, a Tamerlane. — On the one side hierarchy, modern
religion, letters ; on the other, Scythians, Goths, barbarity,
no letters. — From superstition, atheism ; from atheism,
superstition, a wilderness, abyss, darkness, perplexity, loss. —
And what is all this to thee ? why darkness ? why perplexity, or
loss, but because thou wilt thyself ? What is there here but
natural, most natural, good, sovereignty, good and best ?
Enough, enough. Commit this to the mind that governs and
knows how to govern in this other world ; and govern thou thy
own, govern what is committed to thee, what concerns thee, and
what thou art capable of. Wouldst thou be a Phaeton, and take
the reins (suppose) but for a day or two ? Or, thinkest thou that
thou shouldst make better work if this government were laid
upon thy shoulders ? — O, the Atlas ! O, the Hercules ! What
a world should we have from thy managing wast thou to
manage or bear it for a while ! And wilt thou manage it ?
Wilt thou, then, be setting thy shoulders to it and heaving ? —
Bravely done ; to it again ; another lift and it will do. Now the
age ! Lean to this side and now to that. Bring it to rights.
Now it runs right. Rule ! Fly ! Anon the game will be up. —
Right ; for so it will be. It is almost up already. The business
of life is well nigh over, and thou art still at rule and fly !
Man ! what is all this ? Away ! Come to thyself and be in
earnest. Be once a man yet before thou diest.
" O, the world ! the world ! What will become of the world ?
The poor world ! sad world ! and was there ever such a
world ?" — Fool ! was there ever any other world ? was it ever other
than it is ? — Where is the world going ? — Nowhere, but there where
it has gone a thousand and a thousand times : the earth round
the sun, or the sun round the earth, annual, diurnal, eternal.
Hither and thither, and hither again. Dark and then light.
Winter and then summer, and then winter again. Is not this
right ? Would it please you, should it be otherwise ? — Nay, but
for the world's sake. — What world ? Saturn, Jupiter, the planets
96 The Philosophical Regimen.
and their circles ? Fear not ; they will go as they stand. And
if these greater and including circles hold but their order, I
warrant thee (man !) these inward ones (the circles and revolu
tions of this planet of thy own) will go well enough, and as they
should go, both for the planets' sake, and for the rest of the
system. Fear then for thy own sake if thou pleasest, but for
the world there is care taken, the administration is good. Do
not thou father thy own wretched fears on it, and place thy
selfishness and low-spiritedness to so wrong an account.
The Universal Monarchy coming.1 — Must it never come ?
Has it not come already more than once or twice in a few ages ?
a Caesar, Alexander, Cyrus. And how many before Cyrus ?
How many Alexanders, forgotten long since ? How many Caesars
are past ? and how many more yet to come, within the same
periods of time ? — But (alas ! in my time ! — Man ! What is
thy time ? Why not in thy time ? Will it be worse for the world
in thy time than in any other ? — But I must make my endeavour.
I would stop it. — So would I a plague or earthquake, if I knew
how. Tell me how I should stop it, but not by any means, not
at any rate, not at the loss of my integrity, my sincerity, truth,
modesty, my good will towards men, and my obedience to Deity.
For, let this other matter happen as it will, or let it come when
it will, I am resolved to be as well satisfied with Providence
then, as I am now. But, in what way this satisfaction is
brought about ; in what way such a mind is acquired, and how
preserved ; by what discipline and regimen ; what studies, what
order of life, what rules; this thou well knowest. And
wouldst thou break these rules ? — Right, and for honesty's sake
be a villain ! For what is it to be a villain ? What is it to
have neither faith nor conscience ? A mind to which there
is no trust ? A will to which the supreme will is no rule ? To
hate men, and to murmur at Providence ?
What wouldst thou ? — That which is for the good of the
world. — Who knows what is good, what best for it? Who
should know but the Providence that looks after it ? And what
is it that this Providence would have me do ? Fight against
1 The dread that Louis XIV. would establish a universal monarchy
is here meant.
Necessity. 97
itself ? Oppose and thwart ? — No, but accompany, applaud. —
Why act then, or why do anything against the course of things ?
— Because I know not as yet the course of things, because
Providence has not declared : for, when that has declared, I
declare with it, and am of its side ; thus I would have it to be,
and not otherwise.
Ruin is coming ! — What ruin ? Of the world ? the real
world ? the whole universal world ? — No, but of my part of the
world, and that which to me is the whole world. Be it so. But
is thy world a world by itself, or is it dependent on the other
world ? — Dependent. — And by what order does the ruin come ?
By what other than that which governs the world is its support
and safety ? Let it come then, for if it did not, what would
become of the world indeed ?
Universal Monarchy ! — Remember the real, universal
monarchy, the good, the wise, the just, the excellent, the divine.
What monarchy but this ? What is there that can happen out
of this ? contrary to this ? or otherwise than by the universally
advantageous salutary laws of this at once both absolute
monarchy and absolute equal and most perfect commonwealth ?
Thou wishest well to the world (thou sayest). — Why sigh
then ? why groan, repine, and mourn ? Is it for something out
of the world ? — No, but for something in the world, otherwise
than as happens according to the laws, interest, and government
of the world. This is wishing ill, not well to the world.
Thou wishest well to the world. Come on then ; let us see
the trial. Is it a tooth ? an eye ? a leg, or an arm ? Give it to
the world ; surrender it with a good heart ; resign it rofc oXot?
in favour of the constitution and laws that establish it. Is it a
relation, brother, friend ? an estate, a country ? Let us see what
country thou art of, and what thy world is : whether thou art
truly a citizen of the world, or, as they say, a mere worldling ?
Tied to a place, a corner, carcass, and things belonging.
What is it ? — A station in the public ; good. — But it goes ill
with it. — With what ? With the public, where thou hast no part
in it ? What hast thou to do then ? Or where thou hast a part :
what hast thou to do then, but mind that part ? — But that part
suffers. — How ? — A name, a reputation, an interest lost. — So are
other names lost, other interests, how many good men defamed '
I
98 The Philosophical Regimen.
How many reputations injured ? Memories abused ? — But this is
mine. — How is it thine ? Say then, thou wretch : say the
truth ; that it is because it is (as thou sayest) thine. This is thy
trouble. This is thy concern ; for as to the public it is the same,
and as to thy part the same still. For if it be to bear ignominy
and reproach for the public, this is a part still, and one of the
noblest of parts. " BacriXtKov eo fjiev TrpaTTeiv, KCLKCOS Se aKoueiv."
[It is royal to do good and be abused. — Antisthenes in Mar.
Aurel, Ned., Bk. VII., § 36.]
What disturbs ? — The public interest. — How can the public
(the real public) suffer? — But my private interest — right. But
how comes it that a name or an opinion (viz., another's opinion,
not thy own) should be thy interest ? Man ! trouble not thy
head. In the higher public all is well ; if not, why toil in this
lower wretched one ? All is according to the interest it ought to
be. And as for thy own interest : if thou wilt, it may be the
same, and in the same prosperous condition ; if not, see who is
in fault.
A reputation is lost — and what then ? — My service in the
public — and what then ? — O that the public should have such a
loss in me ! Admirable ! But say it more rightly. O that this
should happen which for the good of the real public is best
should happen ! O that I should lose and be a sufferer where
there is no loss or sufferance ; but where, if I please, I may
profit and make advantage.
Tiocrovs ySt] 6 aitov X/oiAT/TTTrof?, TroVof? Savc/oare*?, TroVof?
^TTIKTTITOVS KaraTTeTTWKe ; [How many a Chrysippus, Socrates, and
Epictetus have sunk in the gulf of time ? — Mar. Aurel., Med., Bk.
VII., 1 19]. And not only such as shone like them, but how many
who being as great as they, were yet never known so much as
beyond their own city, or hardly perhaps in that ? How many
hid even in Athens ? How many that got their living by labour,
as Cleanthes ? How many in Sparta, where they could not shine
or be distinguished, all being in one and the same discipline,
same style ; eloquence and writing, being not in use ? Where had
been even the philosophy of Athens but for the muses in the pen
of Xenophon and Plato ? What had Socrates been (as to memory)
but for these two? and even by these had he ever been
•celebrated or mentioned but for the accident of his death, which
Necessity. 99
gave such lustre ? a death which being forbidden to be spoken of,
was so artfully represented and with such effect by the
tragedian, so finely touched in the same way by Xenophon in his
Cyropaideia, and so adorned and rendered so illustrious a
tragedy in Phaedo. Thence the real history, memoirs, defence ?
Apology. All from this death, so much lamented, for which
Providence has been so oft questioned, for which thou thyself
so often hast been disturbed. Had it not been for this where
had been either the first or second memoirs ? where had been the
subject, or where the spirit of his historian or poet ? the hero,
author, or poet-philosopher ? the chastity, simplicity, politeness,
justness of the one, or the divine enthusiasms of the other ?
Consider also amongst the Socratics how many unknown
besides ^Eschylus and how many of the same kind contem
poraries or otherwise at Thebes, Megara, Syracuse in Sicily,
Rhodes, and the innumerable islands and commonwealths, as well
as the other Greek colonies in Asia. Also how many truly
great from the age of Marcus and in the decline of things : all
swallowed in dark oblivion.
What is there that will move thee (oh, hard-hearted man !)
if this will not ? viz. : What is done is e-rrf o-corypia TOV TeXeiov
£(0ov, TOV dyaOov, KOI SIKO.IOV, KOI KO\OV. &c. [for the conservation
of the one perfect living being, the good and just, and beautiful.
— Mar. Aur., Med., Bk. X., § 1.]
POLITICAL AFFAIRS.
(TO.
Trar/o9, o<rov eir e/mo <Y\<T
TTOICIV Kal rav-rrjv ^oijOeiav ; ["But my country, you say, as far
as it depends on me, will be without my help. I ask again,
what help do you mean ? " — Epict. Ench., c. xxiv., § 4.]
Remember the politic, admired novelist, and esteemed patriot
of former times ; on every piece of news a great thing f and how
ridiculous at last this came to be; how it appeared to thyself,
even at that early time. How therefore should it appear now ?
Priamus and his kingdom destroyed — a great thing ! — The city
consumed, the storks' nests burnt — a great thing ! — Achilles is
angry, a Prince has the confederacy ; Patroclus is dead, and now
Achilles — great things ! — But remember indeed where the
great thing lies, and what is truly a Great Thing.*
To the grave legislators, orators, authors, advisers, and
politic dealers, Aristotelians, Machiavellians, memoir readers or
writers, Gothic or ancient modellers, or collectors ; with all that
din of state dogmatists, prescribers, moralizers, exhorters,
praisers, censurers, such as the D - t's, the Fl -- r's, M - th's,
L - 's, &c. Remember & 0/AraTot vofjLoOerai, [O, beloved
legislators. — Ep. Disc. II., c. i., 25] and add to this fancy such an
accosting as this in imagination : " Most noble physician of the
state and inward man ! great judge of morals ! dispenser of
happiness, wisdom, and sovereign health to mankind ! Your
hand, I entreat you, that I may once feel your pulse, for with
you doubtless all is sound and well ; at least you yourself know
whatever is otherwise and can straightway apply the remedy.
" How now, doctor, what have we here ? a fever ! convulsions !
and you yourself ignorant of this ? — A hectic ! a catarrh !
an ulcer ! scabs and running ! and all this overlooked ? Is this
* cf. Epict. Discourses, Bk. I., c. xxviii.
100
Political Affairs. 101
(O noble physician !) thy own bodily state ? Is it thus under thy
gown ? within doors, thus ? thus with thee in the family ? thus
with domestics ? Pelle decorus ? [Pers. Sat. IV., xiv.] And dost
thou come abroad thus adorned, thus specious and imposing on
us and on thyself ? for on thy own domestics, or those who
know thee, thou canst not impose. Physician cure thyself, or let
us see, at least, such prescriptions as thou followest thyself.
Let us see the effect of these in thyself, and then talk
to us, then prescribe. Otherwise Di te, Damasippe, Deaeque
Verum ob consilium donent tonsore [" May the gods and
goddesses, Damasippus, present you with a barber for your wise
counsel.". — HOT., Sat. Bk. II., iii., lines 16-17.] Remember that,
I for my part, have a better than Damasippus to go to. But
that in this age there lives not so much as a Damasippus, a quack
or empiric, in this method or of this regimen, therefore the more
need of strictness.
See by experience the excellency of that rule : M^ irepi
avOpcoTTcw i/reyoj/re? *l cTratvovvres % <TwyKpivoi>Te$ [Converse
not about men as blaming them or praising them or comparing
them. — Epict. Ench., c. xxxiii., § 2], and so ovSeva T/^eyet, ovSeva
cTraivet [blames no one, praises no one.] For remember in Lord
P 's case (as just above a great thing /) How ? In what ?
— Brave — yes, furious, foaming at mouth, a wild boar. — Wise,
learned — astrology, legends and superstition beyond modern.
How in the nursery ? how with servants ? wife ? children ?
how formerly at a court ? How many ways hast thou happened
to see in this very person, what this greatness is, thou so much
admirest by whiles ? — But this is for the sake of virtue and my
country. — See, therefore, what thou makest of thyself whilst
acting thus (as thou sayst) for virtue and thy country ? How
subjected ? how depressed ? how made a slave ? an admirer of
men and things : things outward : play-things : nothings. Is
this virtue ? Is this thy service ? But enough.
Be this so no more. Be but thou virtuous thyself, and go
the way towards it that is shown thee. Let others go theirs:
thou thy own. Let others praise the virtuous, that can praise
and dispraise so cheaply, and at their ease. But for thy own
part, be contented not to praise so much as virtue itself and Oappei
[courage]. Be not afraid that by this thou shalt betray virtue or
102 The Philosophical Regimen.
seem the less a virtuous or honest man, if need be. Though what
need ? What besides being so ? What is seeming in the case ?
Remember the same busy actor in politics at every meeting,
" Well ! where are we ? " So for many years, at last how nauseous ?
So at this hour that many more years are past, were he to be
heard, would it not be the same still ? " Well ! where are we ? "
With what pleasure is this said by -all those lovers of novelty,
revolutions, changes, political schemes, and State transactions ? —
"Come let us sit down (now that we are by ourselves) and
consider how things stand, and whereabouts we are. — How well
would this be in another way ? In a way not thought of, though
much truer ? How well would it be if he brought this delight,
this curiosity, this inquiry homewards, and to a place more nearly
touching us than either our country, or town, or family ? — No.
But how goes the world ? — Ridiculous ! How should it go ?
How, but as it has ever gone and ever will ? Just the same,
the very same. But what of that ? And what though it
went otherwise ? Art thou the leader of it ? Art thou respon
sible ? Is it thy charge ? Assigned to thee ? THINE and at thy
peril ? — How goes the world ? — No matter ; but how go I ? This
is a matter, and the only matter. This is of concern. This mine,
and at my peril. — How do I govern ? The world ? — No. But
how do I govern MYSELF ? — How do matters stand with me ? —
No. But how do I stand with matters ? Are matters burden
some ? — Thank myself. They needed not to have been so.
Does the world go cross ? — How cross ? Should the world follow
me, or I the world ? Is it the world that is wrong, or am I
wrong ? See which !
Whither away ? Hello ! ho ! What chase is this ? What
a pursuit art thou again engaged in? What madness! And
is this sport ? Is it the play ? the game and management
only ? the chessmen, cards ? at \/^0ot ; ot KV^OL ; [the counters,
the dice. — Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. v.. § 3]. Why then these pangs,
these Teachings ? Is not this earnest ? Hast thou forgotten
OTL ov Set TrporjyetcrOou TCOV Tr/oay/xartoi/, a XX' eTratcoXovOeiv [that
we ought not to lead events, but to follow them. — Epict. Disc.,
Bk. III., c. x., § 18]. Stop therefore in this career.
Wonder not at the saying ; but say often with thyself, and
render it familiar : that in all this, an honest man should be as
Political Affairs. 103
free and easy as a knave. Grant it otherwise, and see how long
the honest man will hold honest. For what is knavery but
narrowness ? — myself, that is to say, my purse against the public
purse, my family against the public family, and what difference
between this, and my nation or commonwealth against the
world? my country laws against the universal laws? my fancy
against the Divine decree ?
Remember how many have been and are every day knaves
for their country : some of whom nothing else perhaps would
have made knaves. Themistocles against an Aristides and
against a Phocion; even a Phocion himself, perhaps, in some
decree against the grave and good Xenocrates, his fellow-
ambassador; the elder Cato as in opposition to the younger.
In these latter days, the DeWitts, the disposition of a Mr. F r,
thy old acquaintance. The Dutch patriot, the English patriot,
the Scotch. The contests about trade, precedency, honour, the flag,
England, mistress of the world ! giving laws to the world ! and
such like speeches. But go now and tell us of justice, faith,
honesty, the public ! The excellent public ! the noble public-
spirits ! Remember too what Socrates says in Plato of such
as these, how pleasant a mockery, and how handsomely called
knaves, OTCLV KaTopQuxri \eyovTe$ TroAAa . . . /mtjSev eifioTe? an/
\eyovcriv, [" in which condition they say many grand things, not
knowing what they say. — Plato, Meno., 99 C.] ; and also the
words of Socrates in the Apology, ev yap 'la-re, co avSpes ' KQr]vaioi
. . . ov yap €(TTIV O<TTI<$ avOpcoTrcov crcoO^creTat, OVTC V/ULIV OUTC aXXw
7r\rjOei ovSevl yvijcrla)^ evavTiov/uLevos, &c. [" for I am certain,
men of Athens, that no man who goes to war with you or any
other multitude, honestly struggling against the commission of
unrighteousness and wrong in the state, will save his life." —
31 E.]
FRIENDS.
Why silent ? why thus reserved and deeply thoughtful ?
why these looks, this cloud ? — Why not ? — Tis rigid, 'tis severe.
Am I severe ? — Nay, but to yourself. — Is it then that you pity
me ? Know you iny case so well ? Or, say, why is it that
you pity ? Why am I thus far a concern to you ? why thus
prefer my friendship ? — For virtue. — Know you then how this
matter stands with me, or how I came by such a thing (if such a
thing I have ?), on what terms and by what tenure I hold this
character and quality by which it seems I hold your friendship.
Or, if honesty be not indeed a quality of such great worth or
rarity, why esteem me for this alone ? — But we would not have
it to be alone ; we would have other qualities besides. — As what,
for instance ? As of a jester, fiddler, dancer ? — No, but of a good
companion. — Who are better companions than these ? who are
those they call good companions ? and of what character ? Are
they indeed friends ? are the men of wit, the entertainers of
company, the story-tellers, the raisers of mirth, friends ? or of a
friendly character ? — How reconcile this ? How is it that these
qualities shall be made to agree ?
But it is sad to see this countenance, thoughtfulness,
reserve. Say, then, suppose it were indeed a fiddler, but of the
better sort, a Corelli perhaps, or some other master in that
way, or in sculpture, or in painting. Or what if instead of a
fiddler, a philosopher (as was once the way) were kept in the
great family as an appurtenance, a historiographer, mathe
matician, rhetorician, linguist, would you expect this service
from him ? this entertainment ? Would you expect that such a
one should be company ? Or would you be angry and think it
strange that such a one should muse, or plod, or for the most
part keep silence ?
No, but on the contrary, were such a one ever so backward
in company, dull, heavy, stupid (if you will), without attention
to the ordinary discourse, his eyes ever and anon fixed, and his
104
Friends. 105
whole figure often like one half -awake or in a dream, would not
this be far from strange or ill-taken ? Would it not rather be
looked on as natural, in no way disagreeable, but the contrary,
and in truth agreeable to such a character ? How else could you
expect the genius in whatever kind ? How else the music ? the
good composition ? the good ordering ? the design and masterly
hand?
So, here, in another science and mastership. How else the
music ? the good ordering ? the life ? the friend ? Or is this
nothing ? No art ? no science at all ? an accident ? a thing
of course ? a bit of temper, education, birth ? a matter of no
concern, no care ? " Forgive me, my good friends, I love you
too well to hearken to you, and though but for your own sakes
alone, shall take better care." Ov Ai/o-*reXef JULOI ovSc 777 -Tro'Xet
ovfie TOIS 0/Xof9 a.7ro\€crai KOI TroXiTtjv ayaOov KO.I (f>L\ov. [" It is
not expedient for myself, nor my country, nor my fellow citizens,
to destroy what constitutes the good citizen and the friend."] —
Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. xxiv., § 49.
But, my friends ! What indeed will my friends think ? —
" This is below him, below his quality, not as becomes him, not
as the world expected of him." — What quality ? What is the thing
becoming ? What is the world ? — But they will think this poor
and mean, low-spirited, sad. They will sigh for me, be ashamed
for me. — Ashamed, with reason ? How so ? Be ashamed then
for thyself, whether they be ashamed or not. For their shame is
not the business. Tis thy own business now ; a very just and
real one, if there be any shame, if there be really that which is
shameful. — Nay, but they are unjust in their shame; they are
ashamed for no reason. — Whose is the shame, then ? Is it not
first their shame, and a very great one, thus to be ashamed of an
honest man, their friend ? thus to abandon virtue and think it
mean ? thus to submit and yield to the scoffs of villainy and
vice, to the corruption of riches and honours bestowed on villainy
and vice ? and thus to strive with their utmost endeavour to make
their friend yield also and sink under the same corruption ? Is
this good and worthy in them ? Is this kind ? Is this generous,
fair, or handsome ? But whose is the shame then ? And
art thou for thy part ashamed ? For what ? If for anything for
them and their case. Shame for them who can esteem and think
106 The Philosophical Regimen.
so basely. But for thyself, if it be possible, thou canst be
ashamed on thy own account for anything happened to thee as
to an honest man, acting honestly and as becomes him. See
what shame ? See if thou art not thyself turning vile and
shameful ! — But how relieve my friends ? How save them this
shame of theirs ? — Man, let them look to it themselves. Teach
them virtue if thou canst; make them wise, and they will no
longer be in pain for thee. — But how in the meantime ? — How
indeed ? What remedy ? For besides this there is one only way
that I know, which is to set these thoughts of virtue aside and
do as they would have thee. And yet even in this way it will
not be long that thou canst please them; nor will they be all
of one mind and all pleased alike. There will be the same shame
then too as now, and thou wilt prove thyself at last a notable
gainer by the bargain. — " Thy friends are ashamed of thee "
(thou sayest). Then pity them; it is hard not to take them
out of pain. But are they ashamed aright ? — No, but they
love me, however, and it is for me they are ashamed. — Go, then,
and act shamefully that they may not be ashamed.
To be ashamed for another cannot well or properly be said,
(for how is one man's shame another's?), but to be ashamed
of another: that is to say, being sorry for and pitying in a
certain manner another's misbehaviour, and discountenancing it,
in as far as one has to do with the person. But to be ashamed
for another's no shame ; this is doubly false and monstrous, as it
is corrupt and perfidious. Witness that shame thou once didst
observe of the highly esteemed patriot and man of virtue of
these times, how, when in gay company he shrunk from one of
the best men living and his good friend, because of the mean
habit he wore, as likewise did the friends of Socrates when
he came abroad in the habit1 of which Marcus speaks. And
remember that same man's behaviour when once at an inn out
of town in company with another young man of the same
rank with thyself. What an example ! what precepts of virtue,
continence, temperance ! and what passion he fell into on seeing
us two so reserved and backward ! — Now return to the
harangues and treatises ; tell me of liberty, country, mankind,
1 Mar. Aurel, Med., XL, § 28,
Friends. 107
schemes, models ; write, speak, exhort. These are the declaimers.
Wilt not thou hearken and admire, concur and be led ?
Remember also another gentleman of the same character
and equal renown when talking of love affairs at the table of
Atticus (the Atticus of this last age). How well he was reproved
and ridiculed by a Lucullus and another great one of the same
character that sat by. How much better these ? — though
these were professed Epicureans, in the secret of the sect,
one of them with exquisite learning as well as wit. What
are all these and all else, then, but r« 7roAn-f/ca rairra, /cat,
W9 cueTcu, 0fAo(7o</>a>9 irpaKTiKa avOpw-Treia, /mv^wv /xe<TTa [those
persons engaged in political affairs and who imagine themselves
philosophers ; mere mutterers ! — Mar. Aur., Med., Bk. IX., § 29].
And what other conversations dost thou seek ? what other
discourses hope for ? what other friends expect ? what friends
proof against these tables ? what friends not turned, guided,
governed by these tables and table-talks ? And is it this that
moves thee ? Do these move thee who are themselves moved
by this and such as this is ? — Try, then ; be once again the
table-talk ; make it when absent, keep it up and reign in it when
present. Approve thyself anew to these table-judges and before
these great tribunals that decide characters, distribute fame,
reputation, praise, honour, and dishonour. Be well with these,
that thy friends may hear well of thee, and not be ashamed any
more on thy account, as one given over, censured, or slighted.
Go in again as formerly amongst these and hear the noble and
wished for sound of qSvs avOpamros, 0 lepidum caput !
What! lose thy friends? — What friends? Art thou to
thyself a friend yet ? If not, what other friend dost thou
expect ? Or what friend art thou like to prove to others, if not
so to thyself ?
All alone ! As you see ; for want of better company. I
have a part, 'tis true, that is fit to come into company, knows
company, and is known ; but another part that is not so. I
have a laughing, talking, entertaining part that does all with
others, that admires and is ravished, wonders, praises, censures,
rejoices, grieves, and takes on (as they say) with others ; and I
have a still, quiet, though not less active part, that does none of
all this ; neither admires, nor loves, nor pursues with others, is
108 The Philosophical Regimen.
never pleased as others are pleased, is never angry but with
itself and for what itself can remedy, bemoans nothing, condoles
with nobody, nor has with whom to congratulate. The first of
these parts is a faithless, corrupt, perfidious, mutinous,
sacrilegious part. The second is an honest, friendly, just, pious
part ; in charity with men, and never at odds with Deity, never
of different interests with the one or different will with the
other. For the first of these parts, viz., the familiar, conversable,
sociable part (for so it will be called), I can find companions
enough, a large society ; but for this latter, ike truly sociable,
where shall I find a companion, helper; or associate ?
Hitherto thou hast loved, because thou was courted and
sought. Those qualities are now gone (let them go) that drew
thee this esteem. Come on, let us see now if thou canst love
disinterestedly.
" Thanks my good kinsman (brother, sister, friend), for
giving me so generous a part, that I can love though not
beloved."
" O apostate friend ; how kind art thou in teaching me this
lesson. I cannot indeed love thee more for this; but having
once loved thee and made thee my associate, my friend, I
never will take back my friendship, nor withdraw my love ; but
will cherish that affection which naturally and of itself inclines
me to love with the same tenderness and to hold thy interest
and concerns as dear as ever."
SMALL POSSESSIONS.
(KrijarelSiov — AovXapiov — Qlicdpiov.)
Diminutives indeed ! — But why are they not felt so ? Is it
enough that they are in a certain degree diminished ? that they
are not superlatives ? Shall it rest here ? Wretched objects !
Wretched thee, who knowest them such, yet honourest them as
thou dost ! Others know them not for such ; and therefore know
them. Nor is the honour so preposterous. But in thee, what ?
Obstinate evils ! How covered over ? how disguised ? what
masks ?
Mask of the first (viz., Krria-elStov, SovXaptov) [a small
property, a little slave]. Duty : a part, a character.
Mask of the second (viz., oucdpiov) [a small house]. Philo
sophical : a way of living, neatness, nature, husbandry, garden.
Hoc erat in votis, modus agri, &c., and concha salis puri
[This used to be my wish, a little piece of land and a small shell
of pure salt]. Off, off with these masks.
O subtle enemies ! more dangerous than all open ones. O
close supplanters ! specious assassins ! bosom snakes ! whose
sting goes deepest, and is never felt. Felt only in remote effects :
a lingering sickness, preying disease, long operating but more
sure and fatal poison.
Recover, resist, repel, strive, arm. — War ! war ! Or other
wise, what peace ?
The TO KaXov where ? — Not there, if here. — Rival beauties.
Antagonist ideas. Order against order; opposition. If this a
KOCT/AO?, that a chaos, and vice-versa.
The idea of order here in these things. Why once admitted ?
why borne with ? why endured ? What order ? and in what ?
7r»/Xo9 Ko/u.\ls(a? 7re<j>vpanji€vo$ [This body is only a finer mixture
of cl&y.-^-Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. i., § 11]. For how long ? and
what then ? Who the admirers ? With whom in common ?
Enough, have done. Go to the contrary state ; view that.
109
110 The Philosophical Regimen.
Remember 'E/ Trpoico^at OeXeis, &c. [" If you wish to improve in
wisdom you must be content to be considered foolish and stupid
for neglecting external things." — Epict, Ench., c. xiii.]
Now see ! in reality and effect that which in idea was
reproved (when last retired*). — What hast thou done, O wretch ?
For what all this ? and for whom ? What time, what
labour, what culture ? And on what ? on what bestowed ? —
But the pretext, a study, a retreat, &c. — Had it not been
better to have been building this while, after another manner ?
Better, sure, to have built a mind on this idea, proof against
fire, firm against storms and earthquakes ; always temperate,
excluding the sharp colds and scorching heats ; harbouring no
foulness, no entrance or space for vermin ; clear, clean, sound,
compact, and as a rock. These had been the arches ! This the
stone, iron, cement ! This is the architecture that would have
held and answered, been durable, practicable, accountable.
This is safety, security : not that. These are proportions and
numbers : not those. For what are those, and all of that kind ?
What proportion between those and a right mind ? What
between the things there and the condition of human life ?
Imitation ! Imitation ! — See whence these wretched follies,
and the disease whence caught and how. f Sight : commen
dation : affection : affectation : imitation. — How can this be
otherwise ? How avoid admiration, if forced to praise, or if
viewed in company, and with a certain outward satisfaction and
seeming delight, or complaisance ? Therefore what need of care
and strict watch ? Else what follows ? See ! Diruit, aedificabit
mutat quadrata rotundis [Destroy, build, and convert square
into round. — Hor., Epist. I., 1, 100], and thus longos imitaris
[emulate the great.— Hor., Sat. II., 3, 308].
Commendation therefore and praise J and all accommodation
of thyself to others in this way, whether over thy own fabrics
and wretched possessions of this kind, or over others by relation,
story, description : all equally dangerous.
* cf., Self. f cf., The Beautiful.
J To this therefore apply principally that powerful chapter, the
lesser warning, viz., Epict. Disc. IV., c. ii., Tlepl 'S.v^irfp^opas [On familiar
intercourse].
Small Possessions. Ill
What a noble praise, that of the Roman that he never built !
For so was it said of Scipio, and esteemed as a continence equal
to that other famous part in story.
Whenever these outward managements go heavily, and thou
art ready to bemoan thyself that it is not with thee as with
others; that the things do not prosper nor flourish as with
others ; that thy family suffers, thy relations suffer, thy friends,
clients, dependents suffer through thy inaptness, inactiveness, and
insufficiency in these matters, imagine that thou thus spokest to
them (and so speak indeed, but within thyself and in thy own
hearing only) : " My good friends ! I do for you as I can, and
all I can, and would satisfy you all if so I could. I mind these
concerns for you, an estate for you, and do the best I can for
you and for my country. But if minding, indeed, an estate such
as you would have me mind, and together with it something
besides which you mind not, it happens that I succeed not so
well with an estate as you who mind an estate only and nothing
else, you must not wonder at, or blame me for it."
But let them wonder and blame on ; 'tis natural, they must
do so. As to the thing besides an estate, 'tis what they know
nothing of, nor is it to be told them."
SELF.
Ou yap <j>i\ei<? (reavrov- CTTCI TOI icat T>JV <J>v(riv av arov, Kai TO
/3ov\t]/ma Tcn/nfff e^/Xet?. [" For thou lovest not thyself, since if
thou didst, thou wouldst love thy nature and her will." — Mar.
Awrd., Med., Bk. V., § 1.]
How unaccountable it is to live so as always to reprove
one's self for the same things ? How senseless and unreasonable
always to want to be set right ? How ridiculous is it to lose *
the way that lies before one, and ever and anon, as if in a
strange world, to ask " where am I ? "
Resolve, therefore, never to forget thyself. How long is it
that thou wilt continue thus to act two different parts and be
two different persons ? Call to mind what thou art ; what thou
hast resolved and entered upon ; recollect thyself wholly within
thyself. Be one entire and self -same man ; and wander not
abroad, so as to lose sight of the end ; but keep that constantly
in view both in the least concerns and in the greatest; in
diversions, in serious affairs ; in company, and alone ; in the
day time and at night. Let neither ceremony, nor entertainment
in discourse, nor pleasantry, nor mirth amongst friends, nor
anything of this kind, be the occasion of quitting that remem
brance, or of losing that fixed attention. — But what will my
carriage be in company ? How shall I appear in conversation ? —
Dangerous consequences ! But of what kind ? — lest I be called
ill-bred ; a good companion. But is it not better I should
deserve the name of friend ? Is it not a better thing to be just,
to have integrity, faith, innocency, to be a man, and •(• a lover
of men ? And on what this depends thou well knowst.
But if I suffer not myself to be at all transported, how
shall I act with forwardness and concern in the public or for a
friend ? — If it be a part not consistent with the preservation of
a character, it is never to be undertaken. If it be consistent, but
* cf. Mar. AureL, Bk. IV., § 46. f cf. Natural Affection.
112
Self. 113
with another person and not with thee, because thou hast less
strength, why undertake a part beyond thy reach ? For, first,
thou art sure to act ungracefully, nauseously, affectedly, and so
as to spoil what thou undertakest ; and, in the next place, this is
certain, that if thou f orgettest thyself, thou wilt forget thy duty,
and instead of acting for virtue, act for something else very
different, as following thy own passion and irrational bent.
But this continual application is tedious and burdensome.
Must there be no moments of rest, no indulgence, nor any relaxa
tion ? — It is here thou mayst truly cry out, ou yap 0tXe??
a-eavrov [thou lovest not thyself. — Mar. Aur. Med., Bk. V., § 1].
It is here that thou mayst justly say, thou knowest not how to
love thyself, or thy own good. What else is there in the world
that can give content but this ? What else can save from
misery ? And to neglect this, to be faint, to be remiss, or to
give over here : what else is it but to be cruel towards thyself ?
See how it is with others who place their interest and good in
other things. See the covetous, the vain, the ambitious, the
effeminate : which of these is thus negligent and forgetful of
himself ? When is it that the one is weary of thinking of his
wealth, the other of his credit and esteem, the other of his
power and grandeur, the other of his person and what belongs
to it ? Take any of these in any circumstances, in any company,
engaged in any affairs. It is still easy to observe that they are
not so taken out of themselves, but that they still look towards
their end. They join with others, they interest themselves and
enter into other concerns, but still there is a reserve. Another
thing is at the bottom, and the respect is elsewhere. Their
manners show it and their actions, gesture, and tone of voice —
even where they most desire to hide it. — Nothing is more
apparent to one who narrowly observes. How true and just a
pattern is this, and how deserving of imitation, in another way.
Shall those objects, such as they are, be able thus to allure and
attract, and shall not virtue be as prevalent ? Are sociable
actions and a life according to nature less to be esteemed ? Or
are they things less beautiful in themselves ? Shall he that is a
virtuoso, a sculptor, a painter, a musician, an architect, or any
one that truly loves his art or science, be wholly taken up with
this, be wholly this and nothing else ; and shall virtue alone be
114 The Philosophical Regimen.
that which fails its student ? Shall he that follows this be the
least zealous ? and shall his art be of less moment with him, less
attractive, less enchanting ? Yet what number, what propor
tion, what harmony, symmetry, or order is equal to that which
is here ?
Know, therefore, what iky art is, and how it is to be
adhered to ; and remember that every action, even the slightest,
which is not done according to it, is both wrong and tending to
the destruction of the art itself.
How long wilt thou continue thus to abuse thyself ?
Remember that thou hast now no longer any time given thee,
but that if hereafter thou shalt again relapse, the thing cannot
but prove fatal. Thou hast given way ; thou hast fallen, and
repented. How often has this been ? And yet still thou hast
engaged, still sallied out, and lived abroad, still prostituted
thyself and committed thy mind* to chance and the next comer,
so as to be treated at pleasure by every one, to receive
impressions from everything, and machine-like to be moved and
wrought upon, wound up and governed exteriorly, as if there
were nothing that ruled within or had the least control. At
length thou hast retired. Thou art again in possession of
thyself, and mayest keep so, as thou art come as it were into a
new world, and art free of former ties ; unless of thy own
accord thou voluntarily and officiously renewest them and art
willing to begin where thou didst leave off. Know, therefore,
that when thou returnest to the same objects, if presently thou
art tempted into the least feeling of that former commotion, then
indeed all is lost, thou art overpowered, and canst no longer
command thyself. Remember what thou dost carry in thy breast;
remember those former inflammations and how suddenly all
will take fire when once a spark gets in ; remember the
fuel within and those unextinguished passions which live but as
in the embers. Think of that impetuous, furious, impotent
temper, and what trust is to be given to it. This, too, remember,
that as in certain machines that are fastened by many wedges,
though they be made ever so compact and firm by this means,
yet if one wedge be loosened the whole frame shakes ; so, with
* Epict. Ench., c. xxviii.
Self. 115
respect to the mind, it is not merely in one passion that the
mischief is received, but in all ; it is not one spring that loses its
accord, but all.
Thus warned and in this different situation of mind
approach those things anew, and beware lest thou tread awry ;
/j.rj TO fjye/jioviKov {3\d\fsys TO <reavrov [take care not to injure your
own ruling faculty. — Epict. Ench., c. xxxviii.] But what will my
friends say ? how will they find me disposed to them ? how shall
I bear their altered countenances and their dislike of me ? — Go
then, and be again a jester, and tell stories, act, and be indus
triously ridiculous, for, what is that thou callest wit or humour ?
what is the whole of that sort of conversation? Is this thy
service with thy friends ? is it thus thou wouldst be felt ? — But
if I enter not affectionately and with warmth into their concerns,
if I feel not, so as to be in some degree animated, with what
effect can I speak or act? how assist them by admonition,
by reproof, by commendation and exhorting? For without being
touched and moved in a certain degree, nothing of this can be
gracefully practised, or is to be undertaken. — True. Neither
is this the time. Leave that for hereafter; when matters
within shall be better established and right habits confirmed.
The question at present is not, whether they shall be good ; but
whether thou thyself shalt be of any worth or not.
But, how shall I be of aid to others ? of what use shall I be ? —
O, folly ! as if it were not apparent that if thou but continuest
thus, and art able to persevere, thy example alone (when thou least
regardest it) will be of more service than all that thou canst do
whilst thou retainest thy selfishness, thy meanness, and subjection,
which thou canst not otherwise shake off but by this course. Thou
wouldst serve thy country. Right. But consider withal and
ask thyself wouldst thou willingly be perjured, wouldst thou be
false, wouldst thou lie, flatter, be debauched and dissolute to
serve it ? Certainly I would not. But if I think to serve it as
I am now bid, all this will necessarily follow. For I must
prostitute my mind. I must grow corrupt, interested, false, and
where will then be the service I shall render to my country ? —
But if I have no sympathy with my friends, how shall I be
sensible towards society, or feel any such thing as friendship ? —
Stay therefore till thou canst feel this in another way, for this is
116 The Philosophical Regimen.
not a genuine, social feeling; this is not friendship. The
same temper which warms so much at present is that which
must cool again soon after, and which as it rises must sink.
Such is the vicissitude of that sort of passion, and this thou well
knowest. But there is a constant, fixed, and regular joy, which
carries tranquillity along with it, and which has no rejolt : and
this thou knowest too. Wait therefore till this appear, for of
this one single moment is better than a life passed in that other
tumultuous joy.
Enough has been said. Long since hast thou been convinced
and oft have these things been repeated. Remember now to keep
firm and to adhere. And remember that the combat is in the
smallest things and what seems to be of little moment. If thou
art conqueror here, thou art safe. If in these beginnings thou
failest, thou art undone and all is given up. See therefore in
what a little compass this lies, and in what may be called* "slight
things," but which, with respect to thee and to thy progress,
instead of being slight, are in reality the only things that are
important. All that is serious and solemn lies here ; all other
things ought to be esteemed as trifles, however grave or pompous.
It is this alone that leads to true religion. On this, piety,
sanctity, life, duty, happiness depend ; to violate aught here is
the highest impiety, the highest sacrilege. Begin, therefore,
and, as a legislator to thyself, establish that economy or
commonwealth within, according to those laws which thou
knowest to be just; and swear never to transgress what thou
hast thus solemnly decreed and appointed to thyself. Ta^oi/
TLVO, %Sr] ^apaKTrjpa aravrw, &c. [Begin by prescribing some
character to yourself. — Epict. Ench., c. xxxiii., § 1.]
Remember the Isthmian and Olympic exercises and what
resembles this within, OTL vvv 6 aywv, /ecu %8r] Trapeo-n ret 'OAu/u7r*a
[that now is the contest, now the Olympic games. — Ench., c. li., § 2.]
Not merely upon great occasions that come seldom; but here,
immediately, in that which every minute offers and gives oppor
tunity, as eating, talk, story, argument, the common entertain
ment, mirth and laughing, voice, gesture, action, countenance : in
* Viz. : 1, O-ICOTTTI [Silence. — Epict. Ench., c. xxxiii., § 2]. 2, yeXo>*
/Hi) TroXvs [Not much laughter. — Ibid., c. xxxiii., § 4].
Self. 117
all these the trial is the same and at hand. Seek the occasion,
tempt, provoke. Every victory here is great and consider
able. Let not foolish fancy diminish this and make it seem
little and ridiculous, but remember the end and to what this
tends.
Grant it be hard to deny what seems so natural, so inviting
and alluring ; but remember how much more solidly pleasing,
how much more satisfaction, the consciousness of such a victory.
Not only this, but remember withal the agreeableness of the very
exercise itself after a certain way when once a strong habit is
established, and the mind in a good station, a good bent. Nor
is this only proper to philosophy ; but amongst the other sorts
of mankind, those who can advantageously command themselves
in any particular, or are used to hardiness and labour, take not
a little delight in this sort of exercise and love to try their
strength. How much more one who knows his good, and pursues
a right end ?
It is ridiculous to admire a generous behaviour, incorrupti-
bleness, magnanimity ; and at the same time to admire any of
those outward things by the contempt of which these first are
framed and have being. Therefore, either these internal matters,
the * opyia of virtue, and the f sacred recesses of the mind, are
worthy of admiration or they are not. If they are not
then cease to admire in this way. If they are, then seek
to admire in that other. A celebrated beauty ! a palace ! seat !
gardens ! pictures ! Italy ! a feast ! a carnival ! — how do these
concern thee ? If thou admirest any of these, as being
taken with them and wishing for them, what is become of
temperance, continence, and those other virtues ? and where is
that honesty, faith, justice, magnanimity grounded on them ?
If thou art sound and free, and if the charm and allurement
of these exterior things reach thee not, why dost thou then
make of thyself one of the admirers, and imitate what thou
disapprovest ? Is it for company ? is it in complaisance ? is it
that thou mayst be admired as a judge ? — All this is monstrous.
Forbear, therefore, wholly this kind of way. For there is here
* Mar. AureL Ned., Bk. III., § 6.
t Sanctosque recessus mentis. — Pers. Sat. II., line 73.
118 The Philosophical Regimen.
neither modesty, decency, nor simplicity in any degree. Nor can
the mind be long safe in such a way.
Remember that it is impossible to admire with others, and
to admire at the same time what thou desirest should be the
chief subject of thy veneration and esteem. If those things
are magnified, these presently seem little. If the affairs abroad
grow entangling and considerable ; the affairs at home grow
awkward and wearisome. If others are courted and cultivated,
self is forgot.
How noble, magnificent, great ! When any of those
outward things are thus extolled, think with thyself what those
inward things are of which these carry a resemblance, and of
which it may be so much more deservingly said, how amiable !
how great ! But, above all, take care not to fall into those
exclamations thyself, neither of the one kind nor of the other ;
not of the first kind, for that were to give up all and wholly to
quit the station of a proficient ; and not of the second kind, for
that not only is beside the character of a proficient, but as the
world now stands, would be unbecoming even a philosopher
himself if such a one now lived.
Let others speak magnificently of virtue, not thou. It is
enough if thou act thy part silently and quietly, keeping thy rules
and principles to thyself; and not hoping ever to make these
understood by others. What could even Socrates or Epictetus
do if now alive ? And wouldst thou therefore imitate them —
thou, who art so little fit ? and this too, before such a world
as this, when thou art convinced that they themselves would
act a different part, according to the difference of times ? For,
suppose they had lived with children only, and not with men :
what if with Moors or Barbarians, what if with Goths, or a
nation of Turks ? — Consider where we now are ; amongst whom ;
what opinions ; what lives ; and where those are whom we can
call men.
What need of all this reasoning against magnificent talking
or declaiming on behalf of virtue ? Stay but till thou hast
exhorted thyself sufficiently, and it will be then time enough to
consider who else thou shouldst exhort, and after what manner.
Whilst I find it to be my part in the world, to live as now,
a more retired sort of life, to learn withal what I can from the
Self. 119
ancients, I will continue in this, cheerfully and contentedly. If
Greek be a help, I study Greek, and this though I were now only
beginning, and at the age of the first Cato. If any better part
be given me, I accept it. If all books are taken from me, I accept
that too, and am contented. If he who placed me here, remove
me elsewhere (let the scene change to Asia, Africa, Constantinople,
or Algiers) I am contented. If there remain, there, any part for
me to act, that I can act decently and as a man, 'tis well; if
there be none such given, I know my summons, and leaving all
other thoughts or care I bend my mind wholly towards my
retreat, and this thankfully and joyfully. — This is the true
disposition. These are the thoughts that should be retained and
perpetually brought to mind. But in a little while some new
matter will appear; something striking, astonishing, over
powering ; from family and relations, from a set of friends, from
the State, or some new national revolutions. Immediately as an
enthusiast thou art snatched away ; duty is alleged and morality
pleaded. Then hindrances come and ill success, disappointments,
disturbances. The mind is at a loss : Providence is accused : all
within is disordered. Where is now that former disposition ?
Where is that benignity towards mankind, and that generous
affection towards the ruler and sovereign ? After this, when thou
returnest again to thy former part, it appears poor and mean.
"Is this all? Must I have nothing better to act?" And thus thou
becomest one of those- seditious and quarrelsome actors that
mutiny against the master of the stage. For it is plain, whilst
thou art thus affected, thy aim is towards spectators, not towards
Him of whose approbation alone thou hast need, since in this
respect every part is equally great and worthy if duly accepted
and cheerfully, benignly, gratefully, manfully discharged.
Remember him who said — 6 /xei/ xw/°^ XL™VO$ 0*Ao<ro0ef, 6 Se
X&Y))? /3i/3\iov [" the one is a philosopher without a tunic, and the
other without a book."— Mar. Aurel Med., Bk. IV., § 30].
Consider (wheresoever at any time thou comest to thy work
heavily and with regret, as parting hardly with other matters
and quitting other pursuits), which ^ne thing of all those in life
thou hast not often in some disposition or another been
superior to, and a conqueror of ? Is it venery and amours with
women ? How often hast thou detested this, even in those former
120 The Philosophical Regimen.
times, so as to wish firmly thou hadst neither appetite that way,
nor anything of that kind to give disturbance ? — Is it a house
and seat, buildings and work of that kind ? How often hast thou
sickened of it ? and in those days too, what disquiets ? what
disgusts ? Or is it, last of all (for here I reckon the chief thing
lies), the plays, diversions, talk, story-telling, secrets, confidences,
and whatever else makes up that sort of conversation, which
thou art so fond of with a certain set of friends ? Remember
here how often thou hast been ready to renounce this for good
and all ; and to break off even this correspondence and way of
life, when circumstances seemed to require it, as family affairs,
public, envy of certain persons, apostacy and corruption. — Now,
if melancholy, if anger and disgust, if satiety, weariness, and
other such passions were able to make thee despise these
matters of outward dependence, so as to set thee free ! how
much more ought a right disposition and consciousness to do
the same ?
How shameful is it to be so laborious, active, and indefatig
able in other employments of several kinds ; and here alone to
faint where the concern is highest, noblest, and most generous ?
If thy country were in war, and the charge of an army conferred
on thee by the people, what labour wouldst thou not undergo ?
If a magistracy, the same : what application, what pains, to
acquit thyself well in it ? what bent and continual attention
of the mind ? how wouldst thou be animated, how affected ?
Yet, notwithstanding this, see how thou behavest elsewhere ;
and in the highest concern of all, how weakly, how miserably
affected ! But what charge or what consulship is equal to that
charge thou hast in hand ? What is the commonwealth, the
senate, or people in respect of that authority which has enjoined
this duty and given thee this trust to discharge ? In the mean
while, how are those other trusts to be discharged ? how be a
friend, a brother, or any of those other relations faithfully,
entirely, incorruptly ? What is fidelity ? What is constancy,
integrity, incorruption ? And on what do these depend ?
What miserable subjects are those in which thou hast been
so long busied and taken up, and which have left such
impressions behind ? — a neat house, garden, seat, apartment,
pictures, trees, fabrics, models, design, and ordering. Remember
Self. 121
to distinguish. Is it to please thyself, stand by, alone, look upon
this, and admire it ? Or is it that others may ? What others ?
Consider only who. Are they the common people who repine at
it, and justly ? Are they the rich who are rivals in these
matters, and see with envy and detraction ? Are they men of
business and employment ? They have no relish for things of
this kind, and admire something else which is in their own
way, and what they are used to. Are they, therefore, a few
friends for whom all this is reserved ? O, folly ! Is this the
way of serving them ? Are these the studies on their behalf ?
Remember also this : that by so much as they are better people,
so much the less have they any admiration of these matters.
Thus the preparation must be for the worse sort, or for
none at all.
But what if all the world were to admire ? What if all
of this kind were in the highest perfection with thee ? Is there
not cause of shame ? — " Behold ! See these additional ornaments
which are mine, and belong to me ! See these rewards of virtue !
these marks of justice, integrity, honesty, and a good mind !
Who are they that can show such ? With whom are these to be
found ? Add also : Who are the fittest to procure the most of
these ? what are the fittest measures both to obtain and to
preserve these ? and who are the most able and the most deserving
in this way ? What is the neglect and contempt of these a sign
of ? and what does the love or liking of these prognosticate ? " —
If such be the case, why admit this cheat and delusion ? why
introduce it under specious names ? — a private retreat, a study,
gardening, planting. But this is philosophical. — So is anatomy,
botany, chemistry. But what sort of men are those that here
excel ? What are those anatomists, physicians, chemists, and
in a word all those other naturalists, that converse with nature
(as they say) and study it ? What are their thoughts of nature ?
What minds have they ? Are they not rather the very worst,
and the furthest off from any true sense or feeling ? What was
Epicurus with his garden ? And who was ever more taken with
this than he ? — All this is hollow, unsound, rotten, corrupt. He
who truly studies nature and lives with nature, needs not either
a garden, or wood, or sea, or rocks, to contemplate and admire.
A dunghill or heap of any seeming vile and horrid matter is
122 The Philosophical Regimen.
equal, nay superior, to any of those pretended orderly structures
of things forced out of their natural state. He that sees not the
beauty of corruption, can see nothing in generation or growth ;
and he who has not always before him and can kindly and
benignly view the incessant and eternal change and conversion
of things one into another, will in the midst of his gardens and
other artifices oftener arraign and disparage nature than applaud
and accompany her. Therefore, impose no longer on thyself.
These may be good employments for others ; they are better than
cards or dice ; better than the common pastimes ; better than the
common useless conversations, and what they call company.
Therefore, if thy choice be amongst these, take this which is
rather the best of the sort. But if thou hast other
employments for thy mind, if thou hast other subjects of thy
affection, and if the whole force of thy will is required else
where, be not so rash and foolish, as to spend that force on
other subjects, and thus to lose thy nerve sinews and spirit
where they are so much required.
Watch strictly when the fancy runs out upon any notable
design or outward piece of work. Hoc erat in votis ; modus
agri, &c. [This used to be my wish, a bit of land — HOT.,
Sat. II., 6, 1], and paulum silvae [just a little wood], and
merely conclia salispuri [a shell of pure salt. — HOT., Sat. I., 3, 14].
How rotten is all this. And yet how covered over. How
speciously clothed and lurking under a certain mask ? How
hard still to detect it upon every occasion? But endeavour,
notwithstanding, to bring it forth into the light, examine the
idea, bring it to the test. See how it will bear. Is it virtue, or
has it anything in common with virtue ? Does it come under
the will, or is it foreign and of another province ? Is it my
good as a rational creature, as a man, as a student, and as one
that seeks to improve in a certain course? Is it a help and
advancement in this sense, or is it a remora ?
What is it that I am studying thus to bring into order?
What am I embellishing ? * Dirt, matter, dregs. Is it this
I would adorn ? Is it this I would beautify ? Hear another
* "This body is only a finer mixture of clay." — Epict. Dis., Bk.
I., c. i., § 11.
Self. 123
person on this subject. As one (says lie) delights in embellishing
this thing or the other, so I in making myself still better and
finding that I grow so. Remember the rival beauties and how
the internal sort is acquired. 'Q 0/Xe ILdv : Soiijre JULOL KO\W
yevea-Qai ravSoOev, &c. ["Beloved Pan, give me beauty in the
inward soul."— Plato: Phcedrus, 279, B.].
ARTIFICIAL OR ECONOMICAL SELF.
Dreams, dreams. — A dark night; dead sleep; starts; dis
turbing visions ; faint endeavours to awake. — A sick reason ;
labyrinth; wood; sea. — Waves tossing; billows surging; the
driving of the wreck ; giddy whirlwinds ; eddies ; and the
overwhelming gulf.
How emerge ? When gain the port, the station, promon
tory ? that earTijKe, KCU 7repl avTtjv KoijULi^eTdi TO. ^>\€-/fji^vavra rov
vSctTo? ["stands firm and tames the fury of the water around
it." — Mar. Aurel. Ned. IV., § 49]. Awake ; rouse ; shake off the
fetters of the enchantress ; begin.
Again retired. See what Providence has bestowed on thee !
Once more in thy power to be saved, to redeem thyself, to raise
thyself from this sink, these dregs, this guise of a world, to
manliness, to reason and a natural life ; to come again on the
stage as an actor, not as a machine ; — as knowing the author
of the piece, as conscious of the design, to join in the perform
ance, the disposition, the government ; to be a spectator, a guest,
a friend, and with the same friendship to retire and thank the
iiiviter. — But O, these dreams ! this sleep ! — No more. Die
altogether, thou wretch ; not thus.-— In the other death there is
no harm. But how many deaths in such a life as this ? What
else but this is deadly ? What else should terrify or concern ?
A little more, and mere dreams had gotten the better, and
thou hadst waked no more. For see ! how hard to get out of this
sleep ! how long and deep a one it has been ! how it has robbed
thee of the truest and clearest waking thoughts ! how have
its cheating visions, and false images supplanted those true
ones, and deprived thee of those blessed views, that happy
vision and enthusiasm without deceit !
Turn thy eyes inward, see there how things are left, how
poor within ! how ransacked, how spoiled ! — How bare has this
winter left thee ! these blighting seasons, these intemperate
climes, for which thou wert persuaded to quit those other happy
124
Artificial Self. 125
ones, that healing sun and that eternal spring, those * islands and
that fortress.
What is become of thee, now that thou hast put to sea again
and left thy harbour ? How is it that the land appears, if, as yet,
thou canst make land ? How faint and dim is all ! What supply
of ideas, on any occasion ? What pilot, steerage, compass ?
What \priaris <j>avTa<Tiwv [the use of appearances], inversion, art,
or power ? How destitute ! how helpless !
Thou art returned, 'tis true, to the same country,1 to the
same distance and retreat. But is it the same country, the same
field, and in the same condition as before ? Have not the
tempests shaken and ravaged more than before ? Have not the
seasons and time done more ? Is not everything more to
disadvantage, everything more in the way, more cloudy, dark,
and retarding long the appearance of those halcyon days ?
Thou art returned, 'tis true, to exercise, to arm again and
fight once more. The aXr^/oe? 2 are here at hand, but where the
nerves and muscles ? The arm has been disused ; the limb has
been bound up and is shrunk : no force this way at all ; no
spirits, life or motion ; but benumbed, withered, dead. Mean
while, how is it with the enemy ? How have the contrary visa
profited and made their advantage of this cessation ? how
robust, firm, vigorous, keen ! how polished and specious those
images ! how lively those ideas ! what number ! what discipline !
and with what art they defend themselves and succour one
another !
Remember, therefore, how fallen. — Compassion : sympathy :
relations : family : public. — (What family ? and what public ?)
— K. of S's. death,3 Europe in civil commotions, France and
universal monarchy ; a war, a parliament, elections, parties,
engagements, contests. — How truly prophesied before ? In a
little while some new matter appearing, and straightway an
enthusiastic ? See this treachery. Think of the sore, inflam
mation, fuel, et ignes suppositos cineri doloso [and fires hidden
under treacherous ashes].
* The islands of the happy. — Mar. Aurel. Med. X., 8.
1 Holland, 1703. 2The halteres were gymnastic instruments.
3 Charles I. of Spain died 1st November, 1700.
126 The Philosophical Regimen.
Wilt thou venture again once more in thy life and try this
experiment anew ? And with such impaired constitution, plain
decline, and probably short remaining time ?
If such be the case, why admit this cheat and delusion ?
But thou hast admitted it. It crept on by degrees and under
specious images of nature, virtue, public friends, and what not ?
Then rural-makers, recommendation of country life, agreeableness
of a place, seat alterations, gardens, groves. Thus the villa,
foreigners, envoys, court ladies, satisfaction of the great, imitation
of the great in little, a circumstance, report, character. Such a
one, of such a nation, family, house, garden, retreat. So to the
K., so T d to the Q. of P., and so now again lately from
H. D. and Sir R. G. at Hamb. the Electress and Q. of P. and ce
Conte de Skl
Now see what thou hast got by thy success in this way.
Hoc erat in votis [this was my wish], and so now auctius atque
di melius fecere : bene est [the gods have granted me more
and better : all is well,— HOT., Sat. XXVI., 1, 3]. But is it so ?
Propria haec mihi munera [are these gifts permanent for me] ? Are
these propria ? * are they thine ? honestly thine ? f thy own very
true and certain possessions properly belonging to thee and
naturally thine ? Call an imposthume so, a goitre, a polypus, or any
worse excresence. These if thou hast them would be thine too,
but such as thou shouldst be glad of parting with. And are not
those others imposthumes ? and of the mind, which is far worse ?
Are they not sufficient weights, encumbrances, and growths, such
as eat out the best nourishment of that soil ? Think now how
these sit and are still likely to sit, since thou hast taken such care
to raise and to implant them, to make them thus, as it were, parts
of thyself, and sticking to thee. Wretched things, such as they
are, aa-Oevrj, SovXa, KcaXurd, aXXdrpta [" weak, slavish, subject to
restraint, in the power of others " — Epict. Ench., c. i., § 2], to
which whoever is so joined may be truly said caudam trahere
[to drag a tail]. Handles for every one's insult. Scope for
every fling of malice and stroke of fortune. How notably
1 Shaftesbury received, in 1704, through Sir Rowland Gwinn, an
invitation to meet the Electress Sophia and the Queen of Prussia.
* cf. Hor., II., Ep. II., 1. 157. f Ibid, lines, 172-4.
Artificial Self. 127
hast thou provided for thyself ? How adorned ? Behold, thou
art become an appendix to a grange ! an appurtenance to an
estate and title ! — " Ho ! friend ! To whom dost thou belong ? "
Should a stranger upon the road accost thee thus, peradventure
thou wouldst be angry; but should one who was no stranger
in this universe thus meet and question thee, couldst thou
better answer than by pointing to the things and people, " See
there to what and to whom ? " Or couldst thou with an
honest heart point to Heaven and say, "To that only; to the
Universe and Him that gave me my part and station in it ? See
if I am belonging to anything besides. See if I own any other
Superior, or am false to my origin and pedigree. Take that
other pedigree and name. Seize any of those things that
hang about me. See if I am concerned: see whether I am
less myself ; whether I am their appurtenance or they mine."
— But if it be : " Alas, my poor estate ! my family ! the
grange ! Alas, the island ! the hut ! the hovel ! " Then
see under what subjection thou art brought, and whether
it be not true that the better thou hast succeeded in these
things the more ingenious thou hast been to thy own misery.
The shaking of the earth, a little fire, a puff of wind, the
tumbling or perishing of a pile of timber, brick, or stone; the
defacing of this or that structure, or of the imaginary and full
as perishing structure of a character in the world, with country,
kindred, friends; a breath of wind blasting the fruit, corn, or
grass, and that other blast, as variable and uncertain, the
rumour of people, the motion and sound of tongues : under
how many cases bowed ? at how many accidents trembling ?
How many things and persons anxiously provided for ? Over
how many tyrannize, and by how many tyrannized ? But
thank thyself. It was otherwise at a certain time, but thou
didst reflect, and for fear of going too fast, didst go aside
out of the road, secure of finding it again at pleasure. O
wonderful wisdom that thus deliberated ! O the goodness that
produced this compassion, sympathy, and what followed !
As those were sharp and piercing sores by which this
distemper and relapse first began, so these latter are the
funguses that remain now that the other are closed up.
Remember the greater and less excrescence, the warts, and
128 The Philosophical Regimen.
wens, how they were formed, how they grew from a little, and
to what size !
Thus cautioned, begin; take up the clue; continue the
thread, and see that it break off no more ; no more unravelling ;
but wind thyself up ; collect thyself with all thy might within
thyself. See first the natural, then artificial, economical self;
the o-xeW?, symmetry, correspondence, harmony ; not harmonizing
in that other way ; not sympathizing any more, and applauding
thyself for this; covering it with those names of natural
affection, and tenderness. But how economical ? from what
economy ? From this below ? Is there not a higher ? Wilt
thou not reopen thence ? Or must it be as before ? " Such a
one, the son or grandson of such a one, such a name."
No more. Farewell such computations. — Begin then, and
take it better. T/? &v.
What am I ? who ? whence ? whose ? — And to what or
whom belonging ? with what or whom belonging to me,
about me, under me ? — Quality, rank, birth, of what sort ?
What character, what dignity, and what born to ? — An estate,
title, name, figure ? With whom the figure ? Where ? in
country ? or in town ? — No, but in the nation, in the world.
— Excellent : but how ? Is it magnitude or curiosity only ?
Is it a figure according to art and masterly skill ? Where
are the judges, the masters in this kind ? Or is it a figure
as in a sum ? What sum ? the great sum ? the whole ?
Which is the greater figure and which the less in this
sum ? What is a little figure ? How little or great ? Or what
though great ? What though the biggest unit ? How long
before a blank, a cypher only ? Or though still a figure, what
difference from a cypher ? In these sums what are cyphers set
either before or after ? How increase the figure, how add or
multiply in these numbers ? Consider then what are the right
numbers, proportions, and arithmetic ; what really makes a
figure ; what a figure is ; what a cypher only.
Again, what am I ? Simple or compound ? If I can find
nothing of the first kind, see at least what of the second. —
A compound, a system of what ? Of land ? — No. — Of titles,
honours, privileges ? — No. — Of bones, flesh, and limbs. — And
how, when I chance to lose any of these, is the system of self
Artificial Self. 129
destroyed ? Or is it divided or parted ? — No. — Seek then
elsewhere still for this system. — Where seek it but in that
which bids seek, which now seeks, which determines, pro
nounces, judges of all, makes use of all, governs all ? — What is
it that now examines about this of self ? And according to this
then, what am I ? — Trpoaipea-is [a will], a mind, a judgment. —
And according to this of self? According to this then, what am
I ? — -rrpoaipea-i? [a will], a mind, a judgment — and according to
this what is my good ? — Trpoaipearis Troia [a certain will], a
certain mind and judgment in such a certain state and condition.
— O, by no means ! — But what ? — a certain estate, body, circum
stances, in such a certain state and condition. — And what if these
are in ever so good a condition, and the other in bad ? What if
these are in ever so bad a condition, so the other be but in good ?
Man ! see but this ; look a little this way ; see thyself ; be
thyself ; carry thyself along with thee in thy deliberations, thy
comparisons. With what dost thou compare thyself ? What art
thou worthy of ? and what are the things beneath thee ? T/ra
(fravTaa-iav e\u> trepl e/mavrov ; TTU><S e/xaimw xP^fAai ', [What do I
imagine myself to be ? How do I conduct myself ? — Epict.
Disc., Bk. II, c. xxi., § 9].
First then, who ? — A man ; not (as they say) a mere
earthling; not a worldling, but of the true world — a man of
quality. — What quality ? The herald quality ? patent quality ?
court quality ? Or from progenitors, courtiers ? (worthy
men !) progeni trices of the court ? (worthy women !) — Noble
pedigree ! unquestionable pedigree ! noble thoughts, life, manners,
employment of time ! Happy great ones ! Noble and highly-
privileged great ones ! See to what privileged ! to what entitled
— This is quality ; and is there no better ? Is this derivation ;
and is there no better ? Is this the breeding, education, instruc
tion ; and is there no better, no higher ? — But consider then, what
quality ? — That which is measured from intellect and mind, or
from matter and dregs ? from the author and known father of
minds and from his laws and constitution, or from the laws and
constitutions of such inferior minds as these ? — To whom then
is the relation ? Quality, what ? By what measured ? From
what ? In what ? Lord of what ? — " Lord of the region of
the mind and will, understanding and judgment of thoughts,
130 The Philosophical Regimen.
affections, appetites, opinions, councils; King, Prince, and
of the council of that greatest, highest Prince ; willing as He
wills ; assisting in his administration ; ever present with Him ;
co-operating, co-adjutant, and confederate with Him."
Whose am I then but His ? Whence am I but thence ?
To what or whom belonging ? Or with what belonging to me ?
— Slaves, household, acres; the Lord, an English Lord,
European, Britain, Saxon, west or east : what is all this ? When
wilt thou cease to reckon from hence ? Or if it be not that thou
reckonest from hence : why astonished ? or how ashamed or
dashed ? Why struck at any time ? Why galled or pinched
by these matters ? — But, it is plain, thou reckonest still
from hence, as merely one of these ; as their appurtenance, their
purchase ; claimed, owned, acknowledged theirs. Or, if not
theirs, whose ? God's ? As manumitted by Him and made
thy own ? Art thou then indeed God's ? — O, wretch ! canst
thou say that word ? Is there indeed such a Sovereign, such
a country ? Say then, let us hear for goodness' sake what
is the worth of such a country ? Or what is He worth who
governs it ? What may His utmost value be ? And how far
may He in truth be worth considering or taking notice of ? — Am
I alone and by myself ? Nobody sees me. — Yes, somebody. —
Who ? Nobody but God. But stay, here are other eyes. Let
me have a care, for what will they think of me ? My dignity !
My character! — Now the coaches, the benches, the robes, the
dishes, and services. — What birth ? what country ? what quality
considered ?
Thus it is. Where is the man now placed ? Where now
the real country, nativity, pedigree ? Where the lordship ? and
in what things ? Lord of what ? in what region ? over what
concerns ? How goes it within ? how are the provinces there ?
in what state or condition ? Is it there, " my lord ! sir ! prince !
your lordship ! honour ! excellence ! " Is there due acknowledg
ment of the superior ? is the governing part owned, respected,
obeyed ? is there command, mastery, rule, or disposition there ?
is there power ? Is liberty there ? is there that thing ? or art
thou there no better than a slave ? a servile, stooping, creeping
slave ? How else should it be, when for thy own part being
otherwise born, privileged and set free by the eternal laws of
Artificial Self. 131
the eternal, thou hast voluntarily submitted and subdued thyself
to these temporary feeble laws, and naturalized thyself in this
lower world ? How else when thou hast circumscribed thyself,
thy character, estate, and goods within the verge of parchment,
of a hedge, or of that ditch encompassing the piece of land,
which (it seems) thou choosest to call thy country : denominating
thyself from hence, and accordingly rating thyself by the nature
and worth of such things as these ?
Consider of those appellations and better titles : a creature,
subject, citizen. Art thou such ? Think what they import : and be
them, in a better sense than that other mean one. Or shall it be
only the honest citizen and the burgess ? the islander, a British
dweller, a subject of the Crown, a creature of the great man's, or
of the creature of the great man's ? For what signifies it when
once thou art a creature and thus dependent whose creature thou
art ? See ! look but into the world : how the little ones and
great ones of it move together, depend on one another, govern
and influence by turns ; and then choose where thou wilt, and
see if thou art not still a creature's creature of more than two
or three removes ?
A devoted and most obedient humble servant. — To whom ?
— To the great man or great woman. — And to God what ? — An
undevoted, disobedient, and most insolent one, a complaining,
murmuring, discontented, rebellious one. How elsewhere
devoted as thou art there ? How possible there and here both ?
— Vile slave ! thus to devote thyself to any service but that
which if it were understood would be found truly to be
perfect freedom, and not such as those slaves make of it when
they turn this way. — But what should slaves be but slaves,
wherever they turn ? for till set at liberty from these sordid
matters, what can we be even in religion too, but slaves ? Here,
therefore, learn to be indulgent, here above all, KO.T OIKOVOJULICIV
[in administration] ; but to thyself no indulgence, no hanging on
these affairs, no miscalling or disparaging heaven's distribu
tions, no nick-naming of Providence — hard Providences, dark
Providences, afflictions, tribulations, calamities, crosses. — What
crosses to one who stands not cross to Providence? What
affliction to one who wills only as that, nor ill in outward things
which ever way dispensed, but rejoices in the dispensation ?
132 The Philosophical Regimen.
This is the generous devotion. This is to be the devoted
servant of a right person. This is to be indeed and in earnest,
devout, pious, and withal free, divinely free ; for how otherwise
devout ? If otherwise, cry, whine, expostulate, and wring hands ;
deprecate and at last submit, as they say; but see what sub
mission, what kind of resignation this is like to prove. Praise
outwardly, flatter,' magnify, extol; but see if nature and thy
own heart give thee not inwardly the lie.
Thus it is. Again remember this, and be indulgent to
others, for how can this be otherwise ? Is this to be told them ?
See that thou art not thyself a fool, and vainly impious. —
Forbear !
NATURAL SELF.
— Tvu>6i
Know but this self only and what self is indeed, and then
fear not being too selfish, fear not to say ejuol irafi CJULC 0/Are/oo?
ovSeis [no one is dearer to me than myself. — Epict. Disc., Bk.
III., c. iv., § 10], and TOVTO 6 TTQT^P, KOI a$eA0o?, KOI crvyyevrjs, KOI
Trar/cK?, KOI Oeo? [this the father and brother, and family, and
country, and God]. — For this is the only piety, the only
friendship. Take it the other way, and good-bye all. With
the first weary fit (if there be nothing else in the case) it will
be " Stuff all, what care I ? and let it go as it will " ; thus
stretching, yawning, common weariness or heaviness, before
so much as a sigh comes. But if something harder than usual
come across, then (with sighs) " Why was I born ? What is this
life ? these mortals ? this world and all this ado 1 What good of
all ? what justice or wisdom ? Why was I made thus ? why
made at all ? why anything made ? How ? or by whom ? For
what necessity ? What end ? "
— O cimmerian darkness ! fatal and overcoming blindness !
Epidemical contagion ! universal and incurable ! not to be
sensible in this chief part of sense ; not to see thus clear,
apparent, first, fundamental truth ; not to see that thing which
sees, which judges, which pronounces, and which only is ! For
where could any selfishness remain, where could any ill-interest,
disorder, murmur, complaint, or quarrel either with earth or
heaven exist, were this but seen ; and if nothing else, were seen
for self, but what were truly so ? T/9 yap ayaOo? earnv OVK
ciScos 09 earn ; [For who can be a good man if he knows not who
he is ?— Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. xxiv., § 20].
How many are there that place this self, and root it as it
were, so deeply in a body that they cannot persuade themselves
but that they have something to do with that body of theirs,
some concern, some interest in it, even when dead ? — The
133
134 Philosophical Regimen.
ancients and their sit tibi terra levis [may the sod rest lightly
on thee] ; the burning wholly left off amongst the Christians,
and now-a-days an aversion to being opened ; the care of
coffin, grave, and resting (as they call it) there ; how to lie, in
what manner, and where ; my burial ; my grave ; I would lie
here ; I would lie there : — everywhere Me and /. A property still
kept in this body; a self still; an imaginary I; a secret link,
union, sympathy. And what a horror (I warrant), what a heavy
disturbance and sad bemoaning within, were it but foreseen that
dogs were in a little while to eat the carcase. And if this be
truly so much our self with us, what must the living one be ?
How dear and precious ? how wholly and solely us, ourselves,
our very true, and natural selves. No self to be heard of else ;
no persuading us (as they say) out of ourselves. And yet who
is there that can be persuaded into himself or of himself ? Even
thou thyself how hard to be persuaded !
A wretchedly foolish and selfish human creature thinks he
has to do with his body and that it is still some part of himself
and belonging to him even after he is out of it. A wiser mortal
thinks his body no part of himself, nor belonging to him when
out of it. But a truly wise man thinks his body no part of
himself nor belonging to him even whilst in it ; only he takes
care of it as of a lodging, an inn, a passage-boat or ship, a post
horse. For all these are his while he uses them ; and, as a good
man, he will find himself obliged to take care of them, and to
keep them the best he can, as long as they are in his possession
and lent him.
Why this hankering after flesh ? this clinging, this cleaving
to a body ? What art thou afraid should be taken from thee ?
what art thou afraid of losing ? Thyself ? — What is then lost ?
A tooth? Wilt thou go out for a tooth? — Go then. — A hand,
a leg, a whole body, and what more ? Is not this the furthest ? and
is not this in reality less still than the tooth ? Or say : hast thou
thus lost anything that thou wilt want ? for, supposing this to
be thyself, wilt thou miss thyself when thou art thus lost ? How
many thousand years wert thou thus lost, before thou wert
born ? And yet, no harm. But there is a real losing of self.
There is that which, if lost, will be missed and sighed for. Take
thou care of that loss.
Natural Self. 135
If it must needs be Me and / (as they speak), whatever
happens to this wretched body, let it be / then, in his senses,
who spoke so generously to the tyrant. — " Thou shalt be
thrown into prison. — Then I'll go live in prison. — Thou shalt be
put to death. — Then I'll die. — Thou shalt be denied burial. — Then
I'll stink." What is that / imprisoned, or the / killed, more
than the / that stinks ? What is imprisoned ? My mind ? my
will ? though willingly there ? though contentedly taken up with
my own thought and proper exercise ? deep in the order of
things and accompanying the administration ? — What is killed ?
My resolution ? my integrity ? my principle that tells me
death is nothing ? — But I will put an end to that thought,
destroy that principle. — In whom ? in what ? in nature ? in the
universe ? in its original ? Root and branch (as they say) ? —
This would be killing indeed. But at this rate thou must
kill nature, truth, reason, God. — What folly ! — Where, then,
wilt thou do this murder ? where wilt thou kill this reason, and
in what ? In nature ? — No, but in thee. — What thee ? Where is
the thee that thou wouldst thus deprive ? Deprive what ?
who ? A carcase ? Ridiculous. The real thee thou canst not
deprive, for either it is not at all (and so wants not anything,
nor can be deprived of anything), or it is out of thy reach and
pretension.
AiWra/ Tt? e/c/3aAe?y e^a> TOV KO(TfjLov ; [Can any one turn me
out of the universe ? — Epict. Discourses, Bk. III., c. xxii., § 22]. —
To be despatched, made way with, sent out of the world : —
terrible ! But whither ? where there is world still, or no world ?
For, if there be any, it is the same still, or better ; if there be
none, it is no harm, and "so no fear. *
Kill what ? the thought ?— No, thee.— Man ! I am that
thought : if thou killest not that, thou canst not kill me. — But it
shall be no longer with thee. — Again, with whom ? With the
carcase ? — But thou thyself then, where ? — With nature, God ;
where I should be and would wish to be. How many thousand
ages had my being been already his, with him, in his power, and
at his disposal ? The question here is about a few days only
(for die I must, a little later, if not now), and shall I be
*cf. Horace, Epist. I., xvi., lines 72-75.
136 Philosophical Regimen.
concerned to trust him for such a time as this, or any time to
come ? Was I not from eternity thus exposed (if this be
exposing) ? and is the exposing greater for time to come ? — But
how exposed ? to whom ? and by whom ? — Nature exposing
her own works ! God his creatures ! Principle of ill ; exterior :
where ? Interior : how ? How anything a principle of ill to
itself ? How anything beyond or besides nature ? How any
thing against God, or God against anything ? Anti-God ! God
against himself ! — Folly ! weakness ! wretchedness all !
Carior est illis homo quam sibi.1 Do thou thyself but
love thyself as thou shouldst do, and trust these for their love.
Know, own, assert, be thyself, and there is no fear.
Count not such a certain figure thyself (for thou mayst lose
that figure), not such certain senses thyself (for thou mayst lose
one or more of those senses) ; but such certain judgments, such
certain opinions, and only such certain ones, for if they are not
those thou hast approved and confirmed, it is a wrong self, a
nothing, a lie. Remember, then, whilst I am myself I
cannot be hurt. When I think I am hurt by any of these
accidents that happen to a carcase, or to anything without my
mind and real self, I am then out of my reason, and am not
myself.
Fear nothing but losing thyself in this manner. Fear not
what may happen to thyself, otherwise than in being not
thyself ; and this moreover thou needst not fear, for it is in thy
choice.
The metaphysicians and notable reasoners about the nice
matters of identity, affirm that if memory be taken away, the
self is lost. And what matter for memory ? What have I to do
with that part ? If, whilst I am, I am but as I should be, what
do I care more ? and thus let me lose self every hour, and be
twenty successive selfs, or new selfs, 'tis all one to me: so I lose
not my opinion. If I carry that with me 'tis I ; all is well. If
that go, memory must go too : for how one without the other ?
If thou preservest this true opinion of self (as not body)
even whilst in a body, it will not be surely less confirmed to thee
when thou shalt find thyself (if such be the case) even out of a
1 Man is dearer to the Gods than to himself. — Juv. Sat., X. 350.
Natural Self. 137
body. If the now do not belie thee, the hereafter cannot. If
the present state allow it, the future must demonstrate it ; and
the better surely for thee, that thou hast thus thought and
begun thus with thyself whilst here. — But why these if s ? Why
this conditioning ? Wouldst thou bargain as others do ? — What
views ? what fancies ? — The now ; the now. Mind this : in this
is all.
Self : simple, or a system ? If simple, not body ; or if body
an atom (unintelligible body). But if a system : how is body a
part ? how does it enter into the system ? Can that enter into a
system, of which any portion being lost, the system nevertheless
remains the same ? Or is the system of self not the same, but
changed if a leg or arm be lost ? Is the man a quarter less
himself ? a fifth, a sixth, or one bit less himself than before ?
A man in armour. — Off then with the armour ; is it not
a man still ? is it less a man ? — A man in clothes. Off then
with the clothes ; does not the man remain ? — But a limb.
Let it be a limb. Off with it ; is not the man the same ?
the self the same, the selfsame ? or so much lost ? so much
remaining ? a pound ? an ounce ? an inch ? an ell ? — Is it
possible that self is measured or weighed out ? — Where is
this self then ? where lies the man ? — But the whole body.
— Be it then the whole body. And what is the body (pray)
when no mind acts upon it ? When there is a mind, give me any
shape, any figure, body, or parts whatsoever, whole or not whole,
and I will show you the person, the man, whole still and entire.
What have we to do then with body ? why this concern about a
body ? or what regard to this more than to the armour ? For if
a cuirassier, and upon duty, I am bound to this, and must keep
it as tight about me, as sound, nay, and as bright and fine too as
the thing will bear, as becomes armour, and a soldier, not other
wise.
What am I ? — A particular mind, an acting principle ? —
Over what ? — Over a particular body, senses, &c. ? — To what end ?
— To that which the general mind has appointed, and for so long
as it has appointed that I should use such a body and such
senses. — But they may be taken from thee. — Let them be so.
— But thou art lost then thyself. — How lost ? By having no
longer a body and senses to take care of ? If I have nothing to
138 Philosophical Regimen.
take care of, what is anything to me ? If there be anything
afterwards, I shall be concerned then as now; and all will be
well. If there be nothing, all is well still ; this is all. I am
discharged. 'Tis well. — With the universe I know, all is, and
will be well ; and with myself the same, whilst I think as I do
at present of that universe, know the order and serve Him
who orders. If those thoughts and that purpose are taken from
me, and the / remain, then may I indeed be said to be lost, or to
have lost myself. But the order of the universe is too
proportionable, just, and consequent to admit that this should
ever happen, except in consequence of my own present thought
and action : that is to say, that I should ever become wicked but
by my own fault.
A mind is something that acts upon a body ; and not on a
body only, but on the senses of a body, the appearances, fancies,
and imaginations, by correcting, working, modelling these, and
building out of these. Such is a mind. Such a thing I know
there is in the world somewhere. Such a mind I am sure of.
Let Pyrrho by the help of such a mind contradict this if he
please. He and I have each of us our individual under
standings. He understands for himself and I for myself. — But
who for the world ? — Nobody ? Nothing ? — How is this
possible ? What is the world ? — a body. — What are bodies of
men ? — bodies in this body. — Fancies of men ? — fancies in this
body. — And is there no mind that governs in this body, or acts
upon these fancies in this body ? Has the goodly bulk, so
prolific, kind, and yielding for all others, nothing left then
for itself ? unhappily giving all away ? — By what chance,
what rule, and how ? Whence such a distribution ? — Nature
(say you). — And what is nature ? Understanding ? Or not
understanding ? — Who then understands for her ? — No one.
Every one for himself. — Right. And is not nature a self? —
Or how are you yourself ? — by a principle uniting certain parts,
and that thinks and acts for these parts. — And what is your
whole a part of ? Or is it no part but a whole by itself,
independent, and unrelated to anything besides ? But if on
the contrary it be related, to what but to the whole and to
nature ? If so, what are you yourself but a part of nature and
united by nature to other parts to which by birth and many
Natural Self. 139
other ways you have relation ? Is there then a uniting principle
in nature ? If so, how are you then a self, and nature not so ?
How have you something to understand and act for you, and
nature (who gave this understanding) nothing to understand for
her, act for her, or help her out (poor being !) whatever need
there may be ? Is such her ill-fortune amongst all others ? Are
there so many uniting, governing, understanding principles in
all, and yet nothing that unites, thinks, acts, or understands for
all ? Nothing that distributes for all or looks after all ? — No
(says a modern), for it was never more, nor is more than
what you see. — No (says an Epicurean) for it was once yet less
than what you see : chaos, and a play of atoms. — Believe it who
can. For my own share, I have a mind, which serves, such as it
is, to keep my body and the affections of it, my appetites,
imaginations, fancies, and the rest in tolerable order. But the
order of the universe, I am sure, is yet a much better order.
Let Epicurus think his own the better, or, if he please, the only
order ; and then give account how he came by it, how atoms
came to be wise.
But setting atoms aside, to come to earnest. A body of the
whole there is, and to this body an order, and to this order a
mind : a general mind of this general body. — And the particular
mind, what ? — Part of this general mind, of a piece with it,
of like substance (as much as we understand of substance) ;
alike active upon body, original to motion and order ; alike
simple, uncompounded, ONE, individual; of like energy, effect, and
operation ; and more like still, more resembling, more the same,
if it co-operate (as it may and ought) with that general mind.
Consider, then, what am I ? what is this self ? a part of this
general mind, governing a part of this general body, itself and
body both, governed by the universal governing mind, which,
if it willingly be, it is the same as to govern with it. It is one
with it, partakes of it, and is in the highest sense related to it.
T/? &v. [What am I ? Who ?] Wonderful word ! powerful
question ! if but rightly applied and used,1 not only in the first
and leading sense, the natural self ; but in the economical parts,
and in every relation, station, and circumstance of life.2
1 cf. Epict., Disc., Bk. IV., c. i. 2 Ibid., Bk. III., c. xxiv.
FAMILIARITY.
What would I have, why seek familiarity with these ? Can
I make myself what they are ? Can I reconcile my opinions to
theirs ? If not, why do I affect this intimacy ? Their principles
and mine are opposite as the antipodes. I have the utmost
contempt for theirs, and they for mine ; as far as they know any
thing concerning them. What correspondence can there be
between such ? What kind of alliance is this ? Must not I conceal
and hide myself ? Must not I (if this familiarity be aimed at)
prostitute myself in the strangest manner, and be a hypocrite in
the horridest degree ? Why do I affect to be beloved ? Why lay
this stress on their good opinion and esteem ? Is it because they
commend one, they do not know, and that which they praise is
nothing of thy character ? Show but thyself for what thou art ;
profess thy principles and let them see thy real self ; and what
will happen ? Where will be their praise ? What will their
thoughts be of thee ? How will their affection be towards
thee?
Consider this well, and see if anything can be more
ridiculous. Remember what they are, and what thou art. Thy
firm and stated principles, thy cool thoughts and reasonings, are
to them mere madness. If in reality they are not madness, but
true sense, it follows of necessity that they who take these
things for madness, are mad themselves, and at the bottom
differ not from the most childish and ignorant. But thou hast
long ago pronounced them mad, as following no certain opinions,
and having no guide but unexamined and unsettled fancy.
However it be, this is evident, either the one or the other must
be mad.
Now consider this breach, consider the natural secretion
and if nothing else, let modesty at least prevail. Think what it
is, being such a one as thou art, to join thyself in this manner
with them, as if thou wert in harmony with them, and of their
140
Familiarity. 141
principles. Is not this an intruding ? is not this imposition ?
What is an abstemious man amongst drinkers ? What is a plain
man in company with such as dress ? What is an unbelieving
man amongst those who are celebrating superstitious rites ?
What has such a one to do there ? Why appear beyond what
is required and necessary ? Why mix and associate ? Why
affect forwardness in these concerns, assume and act as willing
to be thought somebody, and of some moment ? Am not I a
monster with respect to them ? am not I of another make and
form ? am I not forced to hide my shape, lest I appear horrid
and affrighting ? What must I do then ? Correct this shape.
Be a human creature, and of their species. Conform to their
principles and manner. Otherwise withdraw ; and (as becomes
thee) withdraw heartily and willingly. Or, if thou canst not
in this way, withdraw then as one that pities himself, or as
one deformed, and that for some natural defect would lament
his own infirmity. However it be, I say withdraw ; for it is
insufferable to stand so towards them as thou dost, and to affect
that amongst them which thou affectest.
Remember still what thou art to them, and they to thee,
and how it must be when any occasion shall chance to show thy
opposition. How will they like to be thus thought of ? how
treat the person who has these thoughts ? What is this but
natural enmity covered over ? What is their friendship for one
another ? Consider what they are capable of, and what a little
time is sure to bring about. If thy friendship which thou
maintainest with them be proof to all this, it is genuine and
right. If at the time when their opinions work in their natural
way and produce those natural effects, nothing that happens be
a surprise; it is well. But if it be otherwise, it is plain thy
affection is more absurd and ridiculous than theirs. For they
think of themselves that they have faith, sincerity, justice,
friendship ; and when anything contrary shows itself in a
companion or acquaintance, they think the person changed, or
that they were mistaken in him (as indeed they were). But
thou, for thy part, canst not be mistaken ; thou knowest their
S6y/u.aTa and opinions, and that to expect ought else from hence
is monstrous absurdity. How comes it then that thou art
moved ? Why pleased or displeased ? Why this affection, zeal,
142 The PhilosopJiical Regimen.
and concern ? What else is this but to will (as * Epictetus
says) that vice should not be vice.
Whenever a certain fondness comes upon thee, such as
invites and draws towards familiarity and intimacy, remember
what has been said above; remember natural secretion, the
fight, enmity, and opposition of principles, what it is that is
placed as a gulf between us ; remember hypocrisy, imposture,
imposition, and intruding ; remember who they are, and what I
myself am, and that we now talk to one another masked and in
disguise, so that I take not him for him, nor he me for me. He
pleases himself with a spectre, and I myself with another spectre.
We are nothing less than what we appear to one another. There
can be nothing less in either the character of the one or of the other
than what we thus love and prize in one another. Strip us ; set
us naked before one another ; and see how each will share and be
amazed. See how we shall then view one another. How will
he bear the sight of my opinions ? or how I his, when I see them
barefaced and natural ? How does he appear to me in his anger,
in his pleasure, in his lust ? how in a title, with an estate, in
reputation or disgrace, in prosperity or adversity ? how amongst
his domestics ? how in ordinary provocations ? how in sickness ?
how in any cross or disappointment ? How many ways intoler
able ? And am I more tolerable as I stand with him ? Can my
opinions, or such affection as mine, be borne with ? Am not I a
monster to him ? What though he be one of the better sort, that
seem to philosophize ? What if he be a believer in a certain
way ? What if he be an atheist ? Yet these, as different as
they are amongst themselves, are yet in harmony and agreement
with one another in respect of what they are towards me.
Where then is my modesty ? What decorum or decency is there
in such a carriage ? How becoming for me to insinuate myself
and court their favour ? Consider, that if there be any such
thing as nauseous affectation ; if it be nauseous in one of a dull
and heavy genius to affect the conversation of men of wit ; or in
one of mean education to affect the manners and company of the
polite sort ; or in one deformed to affect amours and the
effeminate ways of lovers : all of this kind, and whatever else
* JEnch., c. xiv.
Familiarity. 143
may yet be added, will still be found not near so nauseous as is,
in thee, that affectation of a certain intimacy with others.
Behold another age ! (for so it may be called), another face
of things, another scene, another period1 of thy life. Go back to
what it was lately, a year, or less than a year since. Are not all
the views changed ? Family, friends, father, brothers, sisters,
some already gone out of life,2 removed, changed; others in
another manner changed, and in a way still of further change.
New ages, new seasons of life, new companies, new opinions, new
pursuits, new passions. All is under change; all is change.
What is the substance and matter of our bodies ? what the
matter (if I may so speak) of our minds ? What is opinion ?
How should it be but changeable, and most of anything change
able whilst mere opinion ? And what theirs but opinion ?
What is thine ? Is it not opinion also ? Or if not opinion, but
science ; how should this have varied ? how shouldst thou have
given way ? how doubted of thy rules ? how been where
thou now art ?
Consider how it now is ; how since thou saidst, " How long
wilt thou abuse thyself ? ", since thou bidst, " Remember the fuel
within, the impetuous, furious, impotent temper, the machine,
wedges," &c. See whither the same impetuous, impotent temper
has led thee ! Was it for this thou didst retire ? Is it this thou
has brought home ? TOVTO yap e<fi o airoSeSrijuLqKev ovSev CCTTIV [For
this for which he has travelled is nothing]. Is it not of thee
this is said ?
'AXXa aXt? [But enough]. Begin now. Consider thy
shameful fall. See what is absolutely necessary in the case.
What with these wounds, these sores ? See as to the o/>e£?
[desire], the eKK\uris [aversion] what is enjoined. Consider all
this, and come with a new resolution, ov <5ef yuer/o/co? KCKLV^IJLGVOV
[not lay hold of them with a weak effort. — Ench. c. i., § 4].
Bear with the regimen, the prescription, the operation.
Bear with dejection, mortification, weaning. How else the
Remember the exchange OTL irpolKa ovSev yiverai [that there
is nothing to be had for nothing. — Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. ii., § 2].
1 St. Giles, Dec., 1699. 2 Shaftesbury's father died on Nov. 10th, 1699.
144 The Philosophical Regimen.
Remember former furies. What a creature ! and that God
should have called thee out to this ; how wonderful ! Enough,
this but for a moment, and so to die. Vastly enough, and praise
Him. Give thanks rw KCKX^KOTI [to the one who has called
you. — Ep. Disc., Bk. II., c. i., § 39], and thus1 a-TraXXdrTov rov j3iov
[depart from life]. Or if thou wilt, live. Begin then, and
remember after what manner, sworn to what laws, proselyte to
what, dedicated to whom. Remember the two precepts — a-ico-jra
[be silent], ye'Aco? M TTO\V$ euro) [let not your laughter be
much. — Epict. Ench., c. xxxiii., § 4]. Cut off tenderness of a
certain kind ; cut off familiarity, and that sympathy of a wrong
kind. Learn to be with self, to talk with self. Commune with
thy own heart ; be that thy companion. For what other is
there ? See what thou has got by seeking others. Is this
society ? Is it genuine and of a right kind, when it is that fond
desire of company, that seeking of companionship, and that want
of talk and story ? Is this what prompts thee in the case ?
Is this the affection that draws thee to the sociable acts and
commerce with mankind ? What is this but sickness of a
dangerous kind ? In such a case, stir not out ; move not a foot
abroad ; nor open thy mouth to say one pleasing thing. For
what a disposition, what a temper is this ! Mistake not.
Friendship has nothing to do here. See with whom this is in
common. See the nation and people that are the most insatiable
in this way, and hunt after conversations, parties, engagements,
secresies, confidences, and friendships of this kind with the
greatest eagerness, admiration, fondness. And see in what place
this reigns the most : the court, and places near the court ; the
polite world ; the great ones. Of what characters, life, manners
are commonly that sort who can never rest out of company and
want ever to be communicating their secrets ? Call this to
mind, and remember that real friendship is not founded on such
a need. Friends are not friends if thus wanted. This is
imbecility, impotence, effeminacy; and such is all that ardour
and vehemence in behalf of others. How is this being a friend ?
How possible on these terms to be a lover of mankind ? How
be a brother ? How a father and that common father of
i cf. Life.
Familiarity. 145
men ? How the tutor and not tormentor and tyrant of the
children ?
But, be this so no more. And that thou mayest, not return
any more to those ardours and vehemencies, know the condition
and law, however terrible it appear : —
To take pleasure in nothing.
To do nothing with affection.
To promise well of nothing.
To engage for nothing.
Remember OTL aviKijTOf elvai Svvatrai, eav ei$ ju-qSeva aycova
KaTa/3aivr]$, ov OVK CCTTIV €7rl vol viicfja'ai [" that you can be
invincible if you enter into no contest in which it is not in your
power to conquer." — Epict. Ench., c. xix., § 1].
Begin, therefore, from this moment and see how thou canst
hold up against those other sort of reasonings, those com-
poundings, extenuations, excuses, self -flatteries, self-bemoanings.
Shall I abandon all my friends ? — See first if thou canst be a
friend or not. Remember what it is to be TRO-TO? KOL aiSrjjmwv
[true and modest], and then talk of friendship; not till then.
Shall I have no more natural affection ? — Shall I ever have any ?
Shall I not be cruel ? Or say what is cruelty ? ' TOVTOV ovv TOV
Tv<f>\ov imrj cnroXXvvai Kal TOV K(0<f>6v;' [Ought we not to destroy
this blind and deaf man? — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xviii., § 7].
Is not this cruelty ? How not be cruel, if angry ? How not be-
angry with them if pleased with them after this manner, if
hoping good of them (that vice should not be vice), if
sympathising with them, and harmonising in a wrong way ;;
if joining in the play and relishing the playthings ; in short,
if thinking of them, loving them, conversing or being with,
them any other wise than as that natural secretion x allows.
Remember of thyself that thou art (what another said)
as " one born out of season ; an untimely plant ; in a wrong
climate, a wrong season of the year." It is winter, and there
is nothing besides of this kind extant, nothing to grow up with,
no shelter or support. How then ? If I can bear my fruit, well
and good ; if not, why do I cumber the ground ? Why live
1 cf. p. 142.
M
146 The Philosophical Regimen.
below my order and species, degenerate, worthless, productive of
nothing good, disagreeing with the rest of the field and grove, a
briar and worse than a briar, a fungus, an excrescence, a disease of
the earth ? For what else is o eTra/uL<j>oTepi£ow ? [the wavering] and
afA/3o\iepyos dvyp [the lazy man] ? But if thou canst grow out
of these distempers, so as to answer thy stock, and not to be
that other bastard growth ; then wait the season out ; stay out
thy time and to just maturity, till thou fall as that olive : x<*pw
elSvia T<» <J>v(ravri Sev8p<o [blessing nature that produced it. — Mar.
Awrel. Med., Bk. IV., §48]
THE BODY.
Be once persuaded that self lies not in the body ; that the
/ and me are something else; and that thou art by no means
this, but distinct and different from this. Begin it by what
is easiest (though to the vulgar not sa easy), taking it first in the
total separation. And thus to the dunghill with it; to kites,
vultures, wolves, dogs, or whatever else, as well as to fire- worms,
or to a decent grave, as they say. Then consider it in the union,
abstracting it at first from what even the vulgar can abstract,
as from hair, nails, excrements, or the things which by transpira
tion and change of substance are in this instant becoming
excrements.
And as from the parts of the body, so also abstract it
from the whole body itself, an excrement in seed, already half
being, half putrefaction, half corruption. Thus be persuaded of
this : that I (the real I) am not a certain figure, nor mass, nor
hair, nor nails, nor flesh, nor limbs, nor body ; but mind,
thought, intellect, reason ; what remains but that I should say
to this body and all the pompous funeral, nuptial, festival (or
whatever other) rites attending it, " This is body. These are of
the body only. The body gives life to them, exalts them, gives
them their vigour, force, power, and very being."
What is the tyrant's court ? who gives it force ? — The
body. Withdraw the body; kill that once; let it be truly
body (thyself living), and see what tyrant, sword, or axes are
in the way ? — But change the scene. Let it be another court,
that has nothing terrible, and only what charms. — Again, what
are charms, and whence the charm ? Is not this body ? —
titillation, luxury, effeminacy, wantonness, flattery, ceremony,
show. Where is mind in the midst of all this ? Is it not more
stifled here than anywhere ? More effectually despatched, made
away with, killed, sunk, and buried under all this ? Is it not
147
148 The Philosophical Regimen.
the body that lives and flourishes ? Is it not the more body-
like, the more truly corpse ? What else is it that is thus applied
to, thus set up, thus improved and made much of ? What is it
that with all this ceremony is dressed, walked, and aired, and
drawn about and shown ? Is it not so much the more a helpless,
weak, impotent thing, full of wants, ills, necessities, cravings?
And when all is not as full and fortunate as this state requires,
is it not presently all calamity ? Is there any ease or relief from
those other matters — the apartments, the attendants, the amuse
ments, the shows ? Can these fomentations help ? — What is all
this pomp, then ? Why thus disguise the thing ? Why thus
embellish the poor body and exalt the carcase so much the more
by endeavouring wrongly to suppress it ? For, how suppress it ?
How truly overcome it, and all the maladies arising from it ?
How cleanse this sink, how make this stable pure ? By hands ? —
A Hercules cannot do it. — By linen, silks, powder, perfumes ?
— " In vain, O ye nice, sweet, effeminate ones ! Nature will
belie your labours. You are not roses, nor your bodies amber ;
the vulgar labouring bodies which ye despise are healthier and
sweeter far."
By what then is the carcase to be subdued ? — By what, but
by coming out of it ? by not being it, but in it ; and only so
far in it and joined to it as Nature has made me : giving me
withal my reason and those suitable faculties by which I can
abstract myself, find out and know myself, by which I can
separate from this mere matter, and redeem myself from the
carcase. For how else redeem myself ? Whither turn me ?
What respite ? what relief ? what quarter ? How from death ?
how as to pain ? how sickness ? how losses ? How shun all these ?
how deal with these ? Or will they be better for not thinking of
them ? will they come gentler by this means ? will they be put
off thus by being put off in thought and never reflected on ? Is
this the way to lighten them, heal the sting, abate the paroxysms,
and cure the distemper at the root ? — Kai TTOV <j>vyu> TOV Odvarov ;
MviKrare JULOI T>JV \wpav, &c. [Where can I escape death ? Show
me the country that death does not visit. — Epict. Disc., Bk. I.,
c. 27, § 9.]
Now, therefore, the Aoy/xa upon the whole. Nature has
joined thee to such a body, such as it is. The supreme mind
The Body. 149
would have it that this should be the trial and exercise of
inferior minds. It has given thee thine ; not just at hand, or as
when they say into one's mouth ; not just in the way so as to
be stumbled on by good luck; not so easily either, but so as
thou mayst reach it ; so as within thy power, within command.
See! Here are the incumbrances. This is the condition, the
bargain, terms. Is the prize worth contending for ? or what
will become of me if I do not contend ? How if the stream
carries me down ? how if wholly plunged in this gulf ? What
will be my condition then ? what, when given up to body, when
all body, and not a motion, not a thought, not one generous
consideration or sentiment besides ? — Must it not come to this,
and soon too, very soon, if this be indulged ? Such then is the
condition of minds. So are they lodged, so matched, so proved
and exercised. The high architect of minds has thus built,
equipped, and launched thee, not into a smooth lake or river, but
a rough ocean, and fitted thee to bear out the storm. — Am I
thus set adrift ? thus plunged ? — Plunged, but thou mayst emerge.
Buried, but thou mayst rise from this grave. Beset, but thou
mayst break through. — " Man ! use thy arms, thy instruments,
hands, members, natural arms and limbs. What hinders thee ?
Fight it out, buffet the billows, countermine. Work thyself out
of earth and stand above ground, if thou canst." — Is there any
other way ? Can I do better ? How deal else with the carcase ?
Whither fly ? What machination ? What invention ? How
redeem myself ? How be myself ? Tow OVTCOV TO, /JLCV e<rriv etf wlv,
TO. Se OVK. [Of things, some are in our power, others are not.]
These are the powerful words. This is the charm. Up ! Rouse,
then ; for here it is. No remission. No sparing. No quarter
to this death ; for it is death, true death, the other is nothing.
Remember this, then, and in the morning chiefly when
rising to action heavily or remittedly — the gulf — river — grave
— carcase. How redeem myself ? How be myself ? What way
but this ? Or is there any better ? any other ?
Body-coach. Body-guards. Ushers of the body. — Sensible
expression ! For what is there in the thing, but body ? — The
royal thing ! — a body. — Majesty ! — a body. — The impression it
makes, the fear, wonder, admiration ! — Body — body still. For
what else but a vile servitude, a base homage and worship of this
150 The Philosophical Regimen.
home-body is the occasion of such a prostitution to the body or
bodies abroad ?
In bodily fear. — Right, for what fear but for the body ? — Or
how shall we say ? In mindly fear ? Alas ! my poor mind !
What will they do to it? Murder this also? destroy this?
wound this ? if not, how me ? — And yet there are murderers.
There are, that spare not here neither (for so thou art pleased to
suffer it), that torment, that murder. — What murderers, of time,
thought, resolution, and everything good ! Yet these are friends.
No fear of these. — Oh wretch ! When wilt thou have true fear.
When fear for thy mind ? For this fear is to purpose. It will
bring security ; all will be well, and all fear at an end.
It is the custom of our language to say this body or tliat
body, for this or that man. Is a body, then, one and the same,
when dead as when alive ? How alive ? Is it the warmth that
makes a difference ? Is it the moving of the blood ? How if a
body were to live always in sound state; would this be any
body ? would this be a real person ? or the same person ? — What
is the same person, then ? or what is the person, the self, but
the self -knowing, the self -remembering, the self -determining
part ? And what is this but a mind ? What has the body to
do but as by accident ? Why this body and that body, and not
this mind and the other mind ? For it is of a system of fancies,
perceptions, thoughts, that we are speaking ; not of a figure in
flesh or wax; not of a statue, a piece of clock-work, a set of
strings or wires.
Remember, then, where the system is : there the person and
being, there the death, there the improvement and ruin, there the
good and ill. He therefore who is wholly turned towards this ;
who is all this ; who is himself, and nothing besides himself, has
nothing to fear (for all is in his power). But he who has placed
himself in that other system finds the contrary, and may by way
of excellence (if he pleases) call himself some body ; as making
nothing of one who would be no body, and who thinks as no body.
That other propriety of our language happens to be indeed
absurd. But hear how admirably our law speaks — " Bring the
body of such a man" — " an assault on the body of such a man." —
This is right and true. For, what else can be imprisoned or sent
to death but the body ? What else is assaulted but the body ?
Who assaults the mind but the mind itself ?
PASSIONS.
Qua data porta ruunt [Wherever an outlet is given, forth
they rush. — Virgil's JEn., Bk. I., 1. 83.] The same is true of the
passions. Think often of this picture, for, though poetical, what
can be more exact ? — Eurus, Notus, Boreas. — Thus anger,
ambition, desires, loves, eager and tumultuous joys, wishes, hopes,
transporting fancies, extravagant mirth, airiness, humour, fan-
tasticalness, buffoonery, drollery. When once any of these are
let loose, when once they have broken their boundaries and
forced a passage, what ravage and destruction are sure to follow ?
and what must it cost ere all be calm again within ?
Remember the wedges in the machine, and how it is when
but one of these by chance is loosened.
JOY. — There is one sort of joy which is fierce, eager, boisterous,
impetuous, restless, which carries with it a sort of insatiableness,
rage, madness, sting; and which afterwards is followed by
disgust and discontent. There is another sort of joy which is
soft, still, peaceable, serene, which has no mixture or alloy ; of
which there is no excess, but the more it is felt, the more
perfect and refined it grows, the more content and satisfaction
it yields through the whole of life. To the first of these a
thousand things are necessary, a thousand outward and casual
circumstances concurring, the least of which being removed, or
ceasing, it also must cease. To the second there is nothing
necessary but what depends upon ourselves.
Consider now withal which of these we should rather
endeavour to give ourselves : whether that sort, in the midst of
which, if any sudden chance invade us, we are instantly abashed
terrified, confounded, sunk ; or whether we should choose to be
in that sort of disposition in which, whatever happens that is
either disgraceful, calamitous, or tragical, we are not, on this
account, in the least dejected or dismayed, we are not ashamed
of ourselves, or contracted, nor do we feel any of those gripes and
gna wings of discontent and bitter sadness, but can look up and
151
152 The Philosophical Regimen.
set our face against the weather, preserve a steady countenance,
and meet our fate not only undauntedly, but cheerfully ?
How miserable a joy is that which is founded in ignorance ?
and how ridiculous to see a person this moment thus trans
ported, who if he heard the news would instantly be struck
dead?
The test of a true joy is certain news, which, if it can be
borne is sincere, lawful, sound ; if otherwise, treacherous, corrupt,
false. News is come that your estate is seized ; that the enemy
is master of it. You are condemned to banishment; you are
condemned to death. — How is it now ? How is this received
within ? If calmly, all is well ; the joy was genuine, legitimate,
fit to be indulged, and of the right sort. But if thou standest
as one who is thunder-struck; if it be: "O wretch! what
have I been doing ? No more now of these fooleries ! " then
is it true indeed that these were fooleries, and nothing else.
Then also is it that thou mayst truly despise both thyself and
thy former joys. For they were only fit for one who was wholly
ignorant, vulgar, and conscious of nothing noble, excellent, or
truly rejoicing.
How long wilt thou continue to admit that unsociable,
indecent, petulant, impotent, childish joy, and abandon that
which is sober, grave, modest, fixed, constant, equal, which has
no reverse or vicissitude, which has no alliance with shame,
which is a stranger to remorse and repentance, which is humane,
and sociable, and which is fitted to all human events ? Remember
that these are perfect enemies to each other, and at constant
defiance. Whatever thou givest to one is lost from the other;
and not merely that, but employed and vigorously made use
of against the other.
The rack and ruin of all strict inward economy, and the
rock on which it must necessarily split, is that light, airy, trans
ported temper and elevated joy which raises high and aloft these
ideas of the pleasures, diversions, serious affairs and businesses
of the world. And though laughter be a passion which may be
employed sometimes against this very evil, and against the pomp
and ridiculous solemnity of human affairs, yet is there nothing
more unsafe, or more difficult of management. This was well
perhaps heretofore, and might suit with one who was yet unfixed,
Passions. 153
and only in a way towards improvement ; but it must become a
very different kind ere it be suitable for one who understands
himself. It is enough to say that it is wholly unmanageable
whilst any of that impotent sort remains, or whilst anything of
this kind is in the least degree involuntary in the temper, and
not perfectly under command. But what strength of mind,
constancy, and firmness this implies is easy to understand.
Remember, if at any time the general fancy or idea of life
be high, florid, luxuriant (which is the dissolution of all right
discipline, conduct, and economy) that this is owing to that
elevated temper, and the seeds of that intoxicating passion. And
not only this; but when the mind is dejected, clouded, and in
that other extreme, so as to relish nothing, and to be unapt
towards the greater and worthier things, remember that this
also is owing to nothing other than that sort of passion which
before had raised it, and which is now the occasion of the fall.
See what kind of temper that is, in which it is commonly
said he's glad he's alive ; and how the vulgar can take notice of
this, and, in a manner, see the thing. What can be more
ridiculous ?
What is it that those French people call eveilU ? and whether
such a one be most awake, or asleep. In a dream we are then
nearest awake when we perceive that it is a dream. What is
life else but a dream ? Apparitions, vision, fancy. Think of
this often, and thou art but as in a second sort of dream. Better,
much better, to dream, (as they say), than to be in that other
manner, awake and sprightly.
What remedy is there against that fervour, eagerness,
vehemence, but in the contrary behaviour, which will be called
dulness and stupidity ?
If at any time it be said, " He is changed ; he is grown
dull ; he has lost what he had either of wit or humour ;" Odppei ',
all is well ; and thou mayst rejoice as over a good sign, for such
it is.
How happy had it been with thee,1 hadst thou kept to
these rules ! Now see whither a certain lightness and transport
has led thee ! and what passions are grown from those wrong
lSt. Giles, December, 1699.
154 The Philosophical Regimen.
indulgences in friendship ! Wretch ! "61 ewl ra? c
[Have recourse to expiations — Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. xviii., § 20].
Consider *iyy*i TWO. /ecu yuwAwTre? [There are certain bruises and
blisters left in it which, if not effaced, will become sores. —
Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. xviii., § 11]. If thou canst not
think of these as sores, all is corruption and sore to the
bottom of thy mind. Do, therefore, as becomes thee. Kcu
KoXXico QO.VCLTOV <TKe\}sa/u.€vo$ a7rciX\ciTTov TOV /3lov, &c. [Acknow
ledge death to be nobler than life, and depart hence. — Plato
Legg., 854 C.]. But it is in thy power to think of these as
sores, and treat them as such. Therefore, remember after any
weak seasons, as after dreams and fancies of the night, or after
any overpowering encounters, after any of those high, florid,
luxuriant thoughts, any of that treacherous joy, those desires,
loves, impotent wishes, hopes, excursions, ravings — remember how
this running ulcer is to be treated. Remember how it is that the
purulent matter gathers, that the part inflames, that the funguses
and proud flesh arise, and yet at last the part mortifies and grows
insensible. Is the feeling in the meanwhile to be indulged on
this occasion 1 Is the itch to be satisfied, or the patient allowed
to appease the eagerness of it by scratching, or even by tampering
and feeling ? Is not the part to be bound up close and kept from
the air ? and when it is opened to dress, are not incisions,
cauteries, and other things to be used ? Is not all this patiently
and even cheerfully endured through hope of the cure ? How
then ? Wilt thou tamper with thyself ? Wilt thou spare thy
flesh and fly from the fire, the steel, the operations and sharper
remedies ? Or are the other wounds something, but these
nothing ? Is it no matter how it is within, or whether thou
livest always with a macerated, corrupted mind ? Wouldst thou
willingly go out of the world because of such a body that is
incurable, and not because of such a mind ?
Either, therefore, thou art curable or not. But if curable,
remember in what way, and what belongs to one who is a
patient and under cure.
The same as in an amputation. Either (says he) you must
part with this limb or die. — I part with it. — Then bear the
operation. — But it will cost me pain. — Then die. For what is
there else ? How deal with such a passion as this ? If it stay,
Passions. 155
must it not be a worse gangrene than that other ? If it go,
can it go without pain ? Be patient, therefore, and endure what
is necessary ; for thou must either bear the remedy, or the
disease, or death. But the disease here is intolerable ; therefore
choose of the other two, and say which.
"ilerTrep ol laTpol ael TO. opyava, KOI ariSrjpia Trpdxeipa c^ovcri
[As physicians have always their instruments and knives ready
for emergencies. — Mar. Aurel., Bk. III., § 13]. Well may the
Ao'yyttara [opinions] be compared to the surgeon and his instru
ments. Consider the wounds they are to cure ; consider how it
is whenever the instruments are ever so little disused. What
inflammation, soreness, putrefaction ? And when the part is
benumbed and without feeling, how much worse is the symptom ?
How much more desperate the case ? What incisions ere the
sound flesh is come at and the wound again laid open as it
should be ? Remember, therefore, to search the wound, and that
here it is necessary to probe often. Remember to inquire
within, how is the sore ? How does it heal, or change ? How
was it in bed ? in the night ? as I slept ? as I lay awake ? how
this morning ? how at meals ? how after exercise, going abroad,
business, application, pleasure ? — Is it not thus with one who has
but a common sore ? And for fear of what ? For fear of being
lame ; for fear of a deformity of person ; for fear of being
offensive by an ill-smell. What solicitude ! what anxious care !
what concern and thoughtfulness ! " Who can tell me anything
that is good for me ? Where can I have the best advice ? Talk
to me of this, for what else can I hear of ? What can I mind
else in my condition ? " — Is it not thus that they go from one com
pany to another, inquiring, searching, reasoning, and all with
relation to this dreaded distemper ? But what is this distemper
in comparison with another ? Is this the only proper distemper ?
Are other sores less felt within ? Is there not a worse lameness,
a worse deformity and filth ? How then ? Is there to be less
solicitude here ? Is there good reason to look up and go about
unconcerned as one that has no wound, no ail within ? Is that
wretch excusable who wanders about melancholy, disconsolate,
and pining, as carrying that within his body which consumes ;
and shall he only not be concerned who carries the same in a
more inward breast, and who is preyed upon and daily devoured
156 The Philosophical Regimen.
within ? Or are the passions nothing ? Is the other distemper
real and this imaginary ? If so, have done : go to the remedies
no more : no more as he that has sore eyes to the spring and
water: no more as to the surgeon's shop. But if it be not so,
but contrariwise ; if there be no real distemper of a man but the
distemper of his mind; if neither lameness nor sores, nor any
other distemper, nor death itself, be anything to him with whom
opinion is not distempered — then remember that this is the only
distemper, the only sore, which thou now labourest under. And
remember that it is not thy business to show a cheerful face and
walk abroad as one healthy and of a good constitution ; but that
thy proper carriage (if in a way of cure) is thus : Trepleia-i 8e
OL appa)(7TOi, €v\aj3oviu.€vo$ TL Kivfjcrai TCOV Ka.0i<TTa/u.€vcov
7rfj£tv \a/3etv [" He goes about like a sick person, being
careful not to move any of the things before they are firmly
fixed."— Epict. Ench. 48, § 2].
Fear not. That which is now diet, confinement, physic, and
the surgeon's instruments, will in a little time be wholesome food,
liberty, open air, exercise of limbs, and a nobler use of instru
ments, the xprja-is (fravTacriwv [use of appearances] according to
nature ; provided that thou continuest in this method invariably,
immovably, remembering the two assistants ey/c/oarem [self-
contained] and KapTepia [patience] 7rapa.Ka\ov(riv, etj**], TOV$
'Trapayiyvo/nevovs eir\ TOV TOTTOV, Oappeiv, KOI /u.rj cnroSeiXiav •
\eyovcrai, OTL j3pa\v CTI Set KapTeprjcrat O.VTOVS, eiTa tf£ovcriv e*V
6Sov KaXrjv [" They encourage travellers, he said, and keep
them from cowardice and despair, letting them know at the
same time that if they will but hold out and strive a little,
they will quickly be easy and come into a good road " — Cebes
Tabula, lines 267-270].
And this avexov Kal CLTTCXOV [bear and forbear]. 'Eaj/ ouv
fiiaTypeis creavTov ev Toi/rot? TO?? ovo/maffi, jut] y\i\6iJ.evos TOV VTT
aXXcov Kara TO.VTO. ovo/mdfcarOai, ecrrj ere/oo?, Kal ei$ /3iov eiareXeva-fl
cTepov [" If, then, thou maintainest thyself in the possession of
these names, i.e., good, modest, rational, without desiring to be
called by these names by others, thou wilt be another person
and wilt enter on a new life." — Marcus Aurel., Med., X., § 8].
B-emember that the sovereign precept, " to cut off the opegis
(desire), and to use strongly the e/c/c\£<rt9 (aversion)," is in
Passions. 157
a real sense dejection and mortification. It is the depressing,
extinguishing, killing that wrong sort of joy and enlivened
temper ; the starving, supplanting that exuberant, luxuriant
fancy ; and the sapping and undermining of the passions,
cutting the grass under their feet, drying up the sources that
feed, cutting the fibres of the root, to intercept the nourishment.
It is the introducing of a contrary disposition : the wearied,
allayed, low, sunken ; that which creates a mean and poor opinion
of outward things, diminishes the objects and brings to view the
viler but truer side of things. When this works strongly, the
eKKXicns (aversion) works as it should do. 'Tis well. Be of
good hope. When the other disposition has any footing, or
creeps upon the mind, secretly, imperceptibly, in any form or
specious shape (as of friendship, humanity, amicable pleasures,
social joys, sympathy, natural affection, endearment, tenderness,
love), remember here is the poison, here the corruption, the
distortion of all. Here the opegis (desire) ranges, and has
free liberty. Is this for thy state ? Knowest thou yet how to
use these affections? Is it for thee to take up the o/oe£?
(desire) and manage it as one that has nerves ? Art thou past the
first degree ? Art thou no longer frustrated or hindered ? Hast
thou no more to do but to seek the o-xeVet? [relations], being
sure to act as thou pleasest, and as thou decreest ? Art thou at
leisure to polish ? If far from this, if far from being conqueror
of the first, if every day foiled and beaten, if the sores are still
fresh and bleeding ; what shouldst thou do but treat thyself as
belongs to thy state ? — not allowing stronger food ; not aiming
at robustness whilst in a languishing state ; not venturing to add
spirits to the fever, nor nerves to the convulsions. Or is it the
same as if all were well ? Is there not most reason for dejection
when the distemper is thus forgotten ? How when the relapses
are repeated, and when there is every hour some breaking-out ?
What looks, what countenance befits such a one ? But still
I wait till confirmed, and then see. In the meanwhile let it
be o0/ov9 [arrogance], and rejoice it is so.
What is that sort of joy, humour, airiness, but the mother
of base opinion ? And are mother and brat the same ? Is not
the first, opinion also ? — As how ? — As over some great matter or
as in good and happy circumstances. — And when these circum-
158 The Philosophical Regimen.
stances change, how then ? — o'1/u.oi - TaAa? eyw [Woe to me,
how wretched I am ! — Epict. Ench., c. 26].
In everything; therefore that is in this manner agreeable,
*/ O
and steals upon the soul, in every still, peaceful moment not
rightly accounted for, not well-derived, inquire, listen, and hear
what is said within. Be it in conversation, amongst friends, or
with books, or in ever so seemingly good situation or plausible a
circumstance. — Is there not a voice that speaks within and begins
to order and prescribe ? Is there not a subaltern power that
says to the lord and master-mind, " Master ! it is good for us to
be here. Let us to work and build." — Visions ! visions indeed !
mere visions ! how long wilt thou thus build and delight in these
buildings ?
Know the bastard -joy from the legitimate. — How is it ? —
Alive and well. — What is well ? — My body, estate ? — bastard ! My
relations, friends, reputation, fame ? — bastard ! My country ? —
bastard still, illegitimate, spurious, false. But let us hear again :
what other joy, what is well ? A body ? — No ; but a mind, which
has set me more at ease as to what relates to a body. — Rejoice
then. This is legitimate. — I am the poor and merry. — Legiti
mate ! — Dying and merry. — Legitimate ! — Ill-spoken of and
merry — Legitimate! — I can play the cards with indifference,
and be cheerful ; play or leave off, and be cheerful. — Legitimate !
Legitimate !
COMPASSION. — To compassionate, i.e. to join with in passion,
be passionate with. — To commiserate, i.e. to join with in
misery, be miserable with. This in one order of life is right
and good ; nothing more harmonious ; and to be without
this, or not to feel this, is unnatural, horrid, immane. How
else would the machine perform ? For this is meant still of
the machine, or what is all one, of the mind, nature or temper,
as it is when acting like a machine in the common way of life,
in animals and men-animals, where there is no better rule than
the speciousness of the object, nor no other force to act by but
that of the TrdOrj [perturbations] raised thence, where the
only energy is from pain and pleasure, sorrow and transport.
Where men are thus light and heavy, airy and clouded, always
under the power of passion, always passionate, always miserable
in their own cases and about their own affairs, it would be
Passions. 159
unequal, unjust, unsociable, and hard not to be so in the affairs of
others and be wretched too for company.
This as to one order of life, where this fellow-wretchedness
agrees admirably and makes so great a part in the order of
things, and shows us so fair a side of Nature. Hence the union
of several species, their mutual relation, sympathy, life. But in
another order of life, in another species, and in respect of
another, a higher relation, nothing can be more dissonant than
this ; nothing more inconsistent with that true affection, which in
a mind soundly rational is, as it were, in the place of all. To
act by temper simply is, in such a one, the greatest degeneracy ;
a sinking down into a lower species of nature ; a betraying of
that higher one and of that relation into which he is assigned.
To act by temper simply (though ever so good a temper), is in
such a one, a loss even of simplicity, a quitting of that uniform,
self-same, divine, and simple principle, for a various, manifold,
compound, and changeable one, a composition, mere composition ;
for what else does the word temper signify ? — Let tempers then
be as they will. Happy they who by chance have a good temper
and by chance keep it ; who by chance are good as that is good,
ill as that is ill, in temper, out of temper, as fortune pleases ; as
the scene without changes, so this scene within. Excellent
happiness ! Yet this is all ; this is their happiness. And to be
miserable also, to be wretched by whiles, this also is their
dignity, their happiness. Were it otherwise they would be
miserable indeed, miserable in a worse degree, perfectly miserable
and unnatural. — Be it so then. Let those who commiserate
themselves, commiserate others in the things in which, according
to them, misery lies. Let them congratulate in this manner.
But do thou for thy part remember that OTTOV yap xa'LP€LV
evXoyws, €Kei teal TO arvyxatpeiv [wherever there is cause to
rejoice there is also cause to congratulate. — Epict. Disc.', II., c. 5,
§ 23]. And only congratulate and condole according to the
precept orav K\aiovTa 'iSys riva, &c. [when you see one weeping,
have sympathy, but do not inwardly lament. — Epict. Ench.,
c. 26]. In no way sympathise, or feel as they feel, when they
take either this or the other event (even what is unpremeditated)
for good or ill. To a\\ov Trapa <j>v<riv <roi KO.KOV ym) yevecrOa) [Let
not that which in another is contrary to nature be an evil
160 The Philosophical Regimen.
to you. — Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. xxiv., § 1.] Be true then to
thyself.
Malignity hid under humanity — lNigrae sucus loliginis
cerugo mera. Of this kind all that sort of false pity
expressed for faults of others; affected sorrow; anger on the
public account and for mankind ; the quarrels engaged in for the
commonwealth. — Remember that whole season from the first
apostacy of a certain set of men to thy retirement hither to
Holland the first time. See, therefore, whither does this false
humanity lead. Wilt thou have more of it ?
Remember of old, and lately just before this thy second
retreat, how the passions stood, and how that certain involuntary
motion towards bed-time and in bed, dreams, waking, sudden
starts, rejolts, bangs, eagerness, agony. — How near to real
madness ! not so much by the violence of the immediate
passion, as by reflection, repetition, revolving, searching,
renewing, undoing, remedying, regretting, reinstating, revoking,
in vain all, yet without intermission and to loss of mind. Thus
before first retreat hither, speech in the other senate. — And on
return, theod. and blood-letting. — Syrens and their victory. —
Afterwards new perfections aimed at and affairs restored, then
public again, and estate, economy, with that affair which
continued even till the other day (Nov. 6th, 1703). Also the
distractions before the second retreat. Thus frequently in
other losses of mind, not knowing which way to turn when
beset, when urged, when divided in opinion on family and
public emergencies ; and in reality thus distracted, with restless
nights, throes, labours, groans. — From how much would a little
simplicity have saved. "ATrAfcxroi/ a-eavrov [Have simplicity], and
presently how soon all is still ! a-TaOepa -jravra /ecu /coX-Tro?
aKv/uicov [Everything stable and a waveless harbour. — Marc.
AureL, Bk. XII, § 32].
1 The black juice of the cuttle-fish, unadulterated envy. — ffor.t
Sat. I, iv., lines 100-101.
PLEASURE AND PAIN.
KiveiTai TO arapKtSiov, CITO. TraXiv Xe/co? — rj Ovpa
["This weak flesh is sometimes affected by harsh,
>metimes by smooth impressions — the door is open." — Epict,
Ksc., Bk. II., c. i., 19].
MoVoi/ d<poprjTov CCTTL TO aXoyov, TO $' evXoyov (froprjTov
[" That alone is unendurable which is unreasonable ; but every
thing reasonable may be endured." — Ibid., Bk. I., c. ii., § 1],
To dyaOov 8ei elvai TOIOVTOV e(f> S> Oappelv aftov ; ^ TL ovv
f3e/3aiov % rj&ovri ', €7rl Tip dyaOw a£iov eTralpecrOai ; e0' tjSovy ovv
irapowrg dfiov eTraipecrOai ; [" Ought the good to be something
in which it is right to confide 1 Is pleasure then a stable
thing ? Is it right then to be elated by good ? Is it right
then to be elated by a present pleasure ? " — Ibid., Bk. II., c. xi.,
20-22].
Miseri quibus intentata nites ! [" Hapless they, t'whom
thou untriedst seemest fair." — HOT., Bk. I., Od. v.]
PAIN. — What disturbs ? — Pain ? the paradox ? Cry of the
world ? — Come on. How as to pleasure ? Riches, riot, fame ? —
The proofs in these cases. — What of death ? — the injury ? — the
harm ? — Are not all paradoxes, equal paradoxes ? — This the
hardest. — Postpone then, settle but the others which are so
plain and have been so certainly proved, and see how easy this
will be, and remember still that those who object against this are
the same that object against the other; the same persons, the
same reason. But in the other they move thee not. Thou art
certain ; thou knowest. Therefore wait a little ; and thou mayst
also say in this, / know.
As for pleasure ; experience. As for pain, take it thus :
what is it but loss of mind ? For as long as the Aoy/xara x
are present, the consequent affections of the soul will be present
1 Kal TI en P.OI peXci fjL€Ta\o-^i>xca OVTI ; [What signifies to me anything
that happens while my soul is above it 1 — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. vi., § 29.]
N 161
162 The Philosophical Regimen.
also ; and when these are incumbent, what is it that the soul
can feel? And why are they not incumbent? Why do they
fail upon occasion ? — See, why !
Again. As long as there is presence of mind, i.e., as long as
the mind is present to itself, and in the use of its right Aoy/xara ;
as long as it has these at command, it has its bent at command,
and when it is bent, what is it can resist it ? For how is it even
with the common villains where it is mere bent, mere will,
resoluteness, or resolution from one single Ao'y/xa or opinion,
and that too imperfect and ill-grounded ? A false species
of the decorum pulchrum, TO KaXov ? And what, therefore,
should the true species cause ?
Again, rj Ovpa rov O'IKTOV [the door of the house]. What
more ? Or, if it be shut for a moment or two, bend but the
whole force of mind hitherward and see who can shut it, and
for how long — T€Ta<r6ai Trjv Sidvoiav eTrl TO irXoiov [your
thoughts ought to be directed towards the ship. — Epict. Ench.,
c. vii.] and Terda-Oai rr/v ^vxw [direct the soul to this mark. —
Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. xii., § 15] have the same sense. Thank
Nature that has opened ; and laugh at him who would shut.
But if the passage itself be unpleasant, if neither of the two
can please, if it be hard both staying in and going out, 'tis
sad indeed. But see what is in the way, and whether the rub
be in the passage or in thyself.
Now at last consider from hence and make this sad, too sad,
reflection ; for such it is if thou wilt not wholly conform to thy
known laws and rule of life. If this be the consequence of loss
of mind at such a time, if such misery be from the absence of
the right Aoyuara at serious hours, what is it then in wantonness
and gaiety to allow this loss of mind, and at free and easy
seasons to destroy this use, this vigour and ready presence of
the Ao'y/xara, by relaxation and loss or remission of the
Ilpooroxv ? [attention.]
Coward flesh! — Why so? Why blame the flesh? Is not
all human flesh the same — the hardy villain's, the true, brave
man's, the effeminate, voluptuous man's ? Is not the gout, the
stone, the fire, the iron, the same to one as to the other ? Is not
the sensation and feeling the same? Where, then, is the
difference ? Is it not in another sort of feeling ? And what
Pleasure and Pain. 163
is this sort of feeling but opinion ? — Say not, therefore, " coward
flesh ! " but " coward opinion ! "
Such a one bears, but I cannot. — Why ? What is it makes
him bear ? — Is it sturdiness, anger ? (opinion !) — bravado ?
(opinion !) — hope, expectation ? (opinion !) — fanaticism, enthu
siasm ? — Opinion, all opinion ! — See, then, what thou hast
within from thy own discipline to answer this opinion with
opinion, and thou wilt find thou hast more than barely enough
to answer it. Thou canst exceed it all; the thing is more
accountable, every object is better, every reason surer, every
thought juster, every affection, bent, possession, lighter. But
thou must see then to be truly possessed, and in order to be
truly possessed with these things, and to have them for opinion
(real opinion), thou must first be dispossessed of those other
opinions, those prepossessions and prejudices which have gone
before. — To work, then. Throw out the deceit of luxury;
throw out pleasure ; out with all of this kind. But if all be
not out yet, wonder not if pain be such a business, and all of
that kind so terrible and hard to bear.
PLEASURE. — Is it plain, then, that an army ever so brave,
and formed on a right discipline of soldiery, is presently
corrupted by pleasure ? Was it thus a Capua ? Is every soldier
less a soldier for having taken of it or yielded to it ever so
little ? — for having fallen in love, caressed a mistress or
a boy with fondness; for having eaten, or lain, or done those
other things with too much delicacy ; for having only had too
pleasant quarters, enjoyed but for a while the pleasantness of
a climate, breathed the soft air and sucked in the corrupting
sweets? Is the seaman less a seaman, the huntsman less a
huntsman, and so in every manly exercise or function — are the
brave less brave, the generous less generous ? And is it not in
honesty and life the same ? — Who, then, would bear with this ?
Who that is /caXo? /ecu aya$o?. O Pleasure ! who would endure
thee ?
FANCIES OR APPEABANCES.
IDEAS, VISA. — M^re ev TOLLS <j>a.vTa<riai<s aXacrOat [Be not
rambling in your ideas — Mar. Aurel., Bk. VIII., § 51]. Of the
fancies remember four sorts.
The first such as are absolutely vicious and require
expiation : which remember religiously to perform.
The second of a mixed kind, and flattering by what they
borrow from virtue. Against these, fight, as against chimeras,
centaurs, monsters.
The third sort, such as are necessary, as concerning
relations, family, friends, public. Let these be sparingly
admitted, and never but in a certain disposition, i.e., when they
strike not deep, not closely affect : never but when the temper is
allayed, and the e/c/cXto-i? [aversion] rightly set.
Fourthly, as for the last sort, viz., those unnecessary,
wandering, uncertain ones, that haunt the mind, and busy it as
in dreams ; these, as no other than the excrescences and funguses
of the mind, endeavour to cut wholly off, much rather than the
warts or corns from off thy body, and not merely as lumber and
weight, but because the fancies of this kind, like suckers, draw
from the good nourishment of the mind and spend its strength.
This is that matter which serves to feed a strong and luxuriant
fancy, furnishes wit and sets off conversation. Perhaps, too,
this is what may prepare for action and produce capacity and
ability in affairs, by creating readiness of mind, where so many
things are thought of and such a multitude of cases pre-sup-
posed. But it is not thy aim either to be a noted wit or one
of those busy engagers in the world ; if it be, lay aside those
other aims which are towards tranquillity and the posses
sion of a mind. For these things are no ways mutually
reconcilable.
Upon what does all depend ? Where is there ground for
hope ? Where the refuge, safety and security, but in the
aptness, readiness, vigour and piercingness of the right images,
164
Fancies or Appearances. 165
appearances, rules, and in the habit of the mind this way ? Now
how should these be vigorous, prompt, offering themselves and
crowding in upon occasion, when there is need of defence ?
How should these become rendered thus familiar, native, genuine,
but by being engrafted, rooted, or (if I may say so) incorporated
with the mind ? And how should this be, whilst the mind
vacates to other and contrary ideas ? whilst it lives and inhabits
amongst those and only visits these ? — Remember, therefore,
this Soy/ma, and have it present in all trifling, fond, dallying,
wandering, floating seasons. Remember that all this while I am
tempering, sharpening, pointing the wrong and destructive visa ;
whilst for want of use the other lose their edge, grow dull,
unwieldy, and unmanageable.
1When any idea of pleasure strikes, reason thus : — Before I
had this idea, before I was thus struck, was it ill with me ? — No. —
Therefore remove the idea and I am well. — But having this idea
such as I have, I cannot want the thing without regret. See,
therefore, which is better, either to suffer under this want till the
idea be removed, or by satisfying this want confirm not only
this idea but all of the same stamp ? What is this but to
nourish impotence and lay a lasting ground -work of distress,
misery, and growing want ?
To resist the assault of any one idea is to raise a siege. To
yield, is to suffer a breach for all to enter and take possession.
What contest, what combat can equal this, which is no less a
matter than piety, friendship, fidelity, probity, magnanimity,
peace, and tranquillity ? And in which deity, religion, laws,
country, are included ? What are those other laurels, the
naval or civic crowns ? What are those other victories or
triumphs to this ? And yet what remissness, what deadness
here !
See, whensoever any melancholy fancy occurs not to com
pound with it (as God forbid) — no, but not quite so bad — or, it
may mend, or non si male nunc et olim sic erit [If there be
evil to-day, there will not also be to-morrow. — HOT., Od. II., x.].
but run straight to what is furthest, and suppose the worst,
suppose all to have already happened that can happen. If it be
1 cf. Characteristics, I., p. 311.
166 The Philosophical Regimen.
health that is threatened : suppose disease and death ; if reputa
tion : suppose infamy and utter disgrace ; if it be an ill in family
affairs or in the public: suppose both the one and the other
entirely ruined and already extinct. Thus all low and mean
thoughts will be removed ; all earnest engagements, pursuits,
endeavours, laid aside : KOI ovSev ovSeTrore ovre TCLTTGIVOV evOuju.rj6r)<Tfl,
oure ayav e-TuOvimria-eis TWOS [And you will never think of any
thing mean or desire anything extravagantly. — Epict., Ench.,
c. xxi.]
There is nothing more useful in the management of the
visa, or that helps to fight more strongly against the striking
imaginations, than to have a sort of custom of putting them into
words, making them speak out and explain themselves as it were
vivd-voce, and not tacitly and murmuringly, not by a whisper
and indirect insinuation, imperfectly, indistinctly, and confusedly,
as their common way is. For instance, I hear of a great, a
prodigious estate. I find, I admire. What is it I say to myself ?
What is that the imagination tells me ? — " Happy is he that can
keep so many horses, so many coaches, such a table ! " For what
else is it that makes an estate be admired ? Take away the
dishes, the liveries, the furniture, pictures, brick, stone, grass-
plots, gravel, and the rest ; and what is there left even for the
vulgar to admire ?
Again, I hear on the other side of some loss of fortune and
estate. I am moved ; the fancy prevails ; what is it I say to
myself ? — If this go on I must sell all and live privately. — Do
so then, and live privately. — I shall not have a servant left. —
Right, then begin and serve thyself. — But I shall want bread. —
And what of that? — I shall die. — Is there anything more?
Where is the harm ? Why not die thus, as well as any other
way ? as well as of a fever, of gout, or stone, or (but a few years
hence, if one live till then) of age ? — But this is shameful. — For
whom ? For others perhaps it may be shameful that an honest
man starves ; but how can it be shameful for him, himself ?
how can it be his shame, if not his fault ? Can a man on any
other occas'ion die as becomes a man, die generously and nobly ;
and cannot he in the same manner starve as generously and
nobly, and with as good a heart ? What is there that should
hinder ? Say, what is generosity ? What magnanimity ? And
Fancies or Appearances. 167
where else can these be shown, where practised besides, if not
here ?
These are the dialogues that are to be studied and dwelt
upon, written, meditated, revolved. These are the discourses
we should be versed in, instead of those which we affect so much
with other people, to convince others of their duty and of what
is fitting and just. What have I to do with others ? Let me
first convince myself. Let me learn to reason and discourse
thus with my own mind, that I may be no longer inconsistent
with myself and my own reason, and live in perpetual disorder
and perplexity. Let me examine my ideas, challenge and talk
with them thus, before they be admitted to pass. " Idea ! Wait
a little, stay for me, till I am ready : till I have recollected
myself. Come on. Let us see. What art thou ? From whence ?"
What is the subject ? Is it riches ? or a title ? Is it a
female ? Is it renown and credit ? — My name will be famous !
— Amongst whom ? in what place ? for how long ? What if it
were to reach to Asia ? what if to continue a thousand years or
more ? Erostratus has a name. Alexander has a name. What
is this to them, now at this time ? What was it then during
their life ? What is fame ? — A certain sound. — Of what kind ?
of trumpets, timbrels, drums ? — No, but of tongues. — Of what
tongues ? of such as are governed by reason, or that have any
regular or steady motion, or that are consonant to themselves ? —
No ; but on the contrary, that are irrationally governed, wild,
incoherent, inconsonant. What, therefore, is fame ? What is
the rustling of the wind amongst the trees ? Is this all ? — Say,
then ; what is there else ? What is it that praise can confer ?
What is there that is made better by it ? What is it to the
diamond, or the purple ? What to a generous and worthy mind ?
What is it to the sun whether he be magnified or disparaged ?
whether he be thought intelligent or unintelligent, whether he
be thought to move about the earth, or the earth and all the
other planets to move about him, and to attend him ? Consider
yet further. What is it to Deity itself, whether praised or
dispraised, acknowledged, or disowned ? Whose is the hurt ?
Can Deity suffer ? Is it His ill ? How can this be ? Yet see ;
are there not those who blaspheme, revile, and disparage ? What
do even those do, who think they praise ? How if Deity admit
168 The Philosophical Regimen.
this ; .if Deity suffer not, what else can suffer ? what other
perfection be impaired ? How canst thou be worsted or
injured ?
But others will suffer ; others be deceived. — What is that to
thee ? What hast thou to do with their calamity, their ill ?
Why concerned for this error of theirs, more than for any other ?
If they disparage virtue, if they revile goodness, what matter is
it in what subject, or who the person is ? Whether it be in thy
person, or in that of Socrates or Diogenes ? Where, then, lies the
ill of obloquy, unjust censure, and reproach ? Where else but in
the minds of those who carry it and are the authors of it ? — But
in my own mind, how is it an ill, and when ? — When opinion
makes it so.
This is the right use of ideas and appearances. This is
treating them as is fitting. This is the art and method to be
learnt : how to put them into words so as to reason with them ;
force them to speak ; hear their language and return them their
answer. This is the rhetoric, eloquence, and wit which we
should affect ; here it is we should be dexterous, expert, and ready.
These are the turns and this the presence of mind which we
should admire and be emulators of. And if we improved once
in this way we should see the effect, and how well all would be
within. To vevpocnraarrovv CCTTLV eKeivo, TO evSov eyKeKpv/m/uievov.
CKeivo pr]TOpeia, e/cefyo ^aotj, CKCIVO, el Sel eiTrelv, avOpcoTros [This which
pulls the string is the thing which is hidden within ; this is
the power of persuasion, this is life, this, if one may so say, is
man.— Mar. AureL, Med., Bk. X., § 38].
Remember that in the xpyo'i? <j>avTa<Tia)v [use of appearances]
one of the chief parts is the inversion, change, and transforming
of the fancies or appearances, and the wresting of them from
their own natural and vulgar sense into a meaning truly natural
and free of all delusion and imposture. I am told that I shall
be honoured. — Right, for I may vindicate to myself the highest
dignity. I shall be enriched. — Right, for I may roll (as they
say) in riches, if I mistake not what riches are, so as to take
shells, minerals, and stones for such ; if I mistake not about the
place of riches, and instead of a mind suppose a trunk ; if I take
not ought else for riches but what makes rich and satisfies;
brings plenty, affluence, ease, prosperity ; renders fully contented
Fancies or Appearances. 169
so as to desire nothing beyond, and fully secure, so as to fear no
change. In short, I may have of wealth all that I can think of,
all that I can bear or carry ; " if I esteem him rich only who is
wise."
Thus as to the incident fancies that come in the way and
offer from abroad. Consider now how to raise and excite other
such, draw them out and exercise them, that so the superior
part which disciplines, instructs, and manages these subjects
may not lose its authority and command, may not be idle ; but
still at work, amending, framing, polishing, transforming, so as
to give every thing an edge this way, and have wherewithal
to render every appearance or idea instrumental and serviceable.
If I am heavy and dull, unwilling to awake and rise ; consider
what it is that would soon awaken and raise thee up. — "The
enemy is near and now entering." And is it not so ? What do
we call an enemy ? What makes an enemy dreadful ? What
are the consequences feared ? — Captivity, slavery, misery. — And
is not this the question here ? Is not the contest concerning
liberty ? Is it not concerning happiness and misery ? whether
there shall be enemies innumerable, and such as must often
enslave and conquer ; or whether there shall be no enemy, but
all safe, secure, undisturbed, and happy ? How comes it, there
fore, I am not alarmed ? Where should I be alarmed but here ?
If matters be right here, I may sleep sound and secure, whatever
enemy or weapons stand at the door. If my sleep be of another
kind ; if laziness, torpor, and indolence have got hold of me, so
that I no longer sleep because it is necessary, because it is what
my body wants, and what I therefore think fit to allow it ; if
such be the case, up ! rise ! the enemy is at the door, and a
dangerous, dreadful enemy, not like that other which can
touch nothing that is thine, nothing that thou art concerned for.
Here is the enemy to be feared, that has admittance where
the things of only importance are kept. Here is the enemy
that is to be opposed with all might and strength, and here, if
thou wilt, thou mayest be sure of conquest.
Again, turn it another way, take it from any other side. — I
am called. — Art thou not called ? Is it because thou hearest no
voice ? I am commanded. — Art thou not commanded ? — Is it not
a command of a higher nature ? from a higher person ? of
170 The Philosophical Regimen.
higher importance ? Is it not the duty, a much greater duty ?
the law, a greater law ?
These are the inversions. This is the right modelling or
moulding of the visa. Such is that * good fire, or f stomach
that can overpower and rightly convert whatever is thrown into
it, and can turn the same to its use and advantage. — I am
undeservingly reproached for acting well. — Be it so, then I may
still be more deserving ; if I act on. But I love applause with
men — therefore I have higher applause elsewhere. I am thrown
into solitude — therefore I am left with better company. I am
not obliged to mind trifles. I am not diverted or called away
from another presence and contemplation. I am all my own
and entire towards Deity and that genius and companion which
He has given me and which governs for Him and only waits
His pleasure. — But I am no longer useful to the world ; neither
can I be so, more than for a certain time. Is it age that puts
the period ? 'Tis well, it comes apace. Is it anything before
age ? Then here is that that is instead of it. What would I
have ? Have I not seen enough ? Is not J the last act finished ?
Is not the piece complete ? The curtain falls, and I go out.
Would I begin anew and see the same over again, or stay after
the spectacle is ceased, and nothing but the place remains ? If
neither of these, what have I to do but to retire cheerfully,
contentedly, and thankfully ? Could it be said even in an
Epicurean manner — Edisti satis atque bibisti [Thou hast eaten
and drunk enough] ; and in the same manner — Exacto contentus
tempore vitae, recedat ut conviva satur [When his allotted
space of life is run let him retire satisfied, like a well-fed
banqueter] — and shall not another say Ipse deus simul atque
voto me solvet [As soon as God himself releases me from my
vow] ? Is not His dismission enough ? What do I stay for
more ? — These are the considerations of moment. Thus are the
appearances disposed and modelled. In this architecture all
depends.
Remember that it is the same here as in an army. If the
soldiers are often reviewed, disciplined, and kept in exercise and
* Mar. AureL, Bk. IV., § 1. f Ibid., Bk. X., § 31, 35.
| Ibid., Bk. XII., § 36.
Fancies or Appearances. 171
obedience, all will be orderly and well ; if left to themselves,
disorder, mutiny, and confusion will follow ; much mischief, but
no good, no succour, or defence. Thus if the principal and
commanding part keep its command and preserve its subjects
(the visa and appearances) in right discipline and exercise, all
will be well, and every engagement and action successful and of
advantage.
To the same art (viz., the inversion of the appearances)
all those passages in Mar. Aurel. belong to a stranger, a
* deserter or renegade, a beggar ; an excrescence, wart, or wen ;
blindness, lameness, amputation ; fan arm or leg divided from the
body: a J branch lopped off; a gardener and engrafting.— Thus
also to rob § (not || with hands but with another part : not as
vindicating to ourselves what the law has made another's; but
what a superior law has decreed not to belong to us and of
another jurisdiction (ra OVK e0' fiiJ.lv}. Seed (not that which is
thrown into the IF earth or matrix). A sale, bargain, exchange
(nothing gratis). Quiet, ease, a sweet repose, happy retirement
tranquillity (not that ** which outward things establish ; not that
which must be owing to others ; not a ff sea shore, not rocks, not
woods or caves). To fj see, to feel things (not with the eye or
by the touch, but in another manner). And as in Marcus or
elsewhere.
Thus §§ at last hardly can any appearance arise, hardly can
there be any object ever so remote or foreign, but what the mind
will accommodate to itself and turn to its own use. Let the
fancy come in whatsoever shape, it immediately receives a
different form, and its force is turned another way. This is just
the reverse of what happens to those who are grown into the
thorough buffooning habit. Everything that they see, be it ever
so grave or serious, has a ridiculous appearance, and whether
they will or not becomes burlesque. Everything is travestied so
* Mar., Med., Bk. X., § 25. f Ibid., Bk. VIII., § 34.
+ Ibid., Bk. II., § 8. §/&«£, Bk. II., § 10.
\\Ibid., Bk. X.,§13.
U Ibid., Bk. IV., § 36, and Bk. X., § 26.
** Ibid., Bk. IV., § 3. ft Ibid., Bk. X., § 15, 22, 33, and Bk. V., § 29.
k. X., § 26, and^Bk. III., § 15.
^Rotterdam, 1704.
172 The Philosophical Regimen.
as to make diversion out of it, and whatever be the face that
offers, there are glasses ready that make it to be seen after a
thousand ridiculous ways, and that, instead of that one real face,
present a thousand masks of a grotesque and fantastic kind.
So in the other way, everything light, airy, or fantastic, every
thing that raises any curiosity, or that employs or busies
mankind, be the object what it will, it takes a new face and
becomes serious. The difference here is that, as that other
glass crooks and distorts the objects, so this continually
straightens and redresses what is amiss, and sets everything in
its due light, so as to hinder all confusion.
In the same manner, as one of those students of wit is
rejoiced on account of some lucky word or expression that
he has invented; as a poet is rejoiced when he has luckily
versified; as a mathematician when he has made a discovery
about lines and circles ; as an architect when he has raised some
artful pile; or a general some artful stratagem; so be thou
rejoiced when, according to thy own art which thou hast learnt,
it has happened to thee skilfully, and like a master, to have
modelled or well fabricated some one appearance or idea. If
thou hast succeeded well here, then say to thyself, " I had rather
this, than the cubilo of Michael Angelo : I had rather this
than the Philippics of Demosthenes or Cicero ; rather than
have written like Homer, or fought like Alexander." If thou
dost not see why this is greater and more glorious than all
that other, thou art so far yet from being a proficient, that
thou knowest not what thy art is ; what it promises, or to
what it tends.
All other arts stand in need of something exterior, as
materials, spectators, auditors : so in architecture, rhetoric, music,
and the rest. This art alone carries its materials with it (for it is
its own * subject), and not only its materials, but spectators ; for
itself contemplates itself ; nor does it seek other witnesses than
such as are always present., viz., Deity, and that inward genius.
All other sorts are incomplete, and aim at something beyond
* V\T) TOV Ka\ov /cat dyadov TO t8iov fjyefioviKov [The material for the
wise and good is one's own ruling faculty.] — Epict. Disc., Book III.,
c. iii., § 1.
Fancies or Appearances. 173
(for which of these arts is for its own sake ?). This art is
complete in itself; for this being attained nothing further is
requred, since this itself is happiness and prosperity.
All other arts require some relaxation and diversion, and
are more vigorously prosecuted after such relief. This art alone
admits not of any interval, and is the worse for every relaxation.
How unaccountable is it to ask to be relieved of happiness, and
to require a suspension of good ? And is not this thy good ?
Where is it then ? Where dost thou seek or expect it ? If
anywhere from abroad, see what danger thou art still in, and
how little any relaxation can be borne with. Remember this on
every occasion of this kind. I seek relief or respite, from
what ? From my good ? — Impossible. From that which is not
my good ? — Then see in what thou placest thy good ! Where
are thy opinions ? Where is philosophy ? What hast thou been
doing? Is conviction anything or nothing? Is all that is
passed to go for nothing ? Where wilt thou rest then ? To
what adhere ? — Thus all is given up, for there is no acting here
by halves. There is no middle way, no capitulation or com
pounding in the affairs of this kind. Either all is maintained
or all surrendered. Every suspension is a total dismission ;
every receding a betraying of the whole.
Again thy art. ' KTroKplvetrQai Tols Trpay/jiaa-iv [To give an
answer to things. — Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. xvi., § 2]. Now make
it good. Now to be firm. Now adhere. Nunc animis opus est,
nunc pectore firmo [Now there is need of courage, now for
a steadfast heart. — Virg., Aen. IV., 261]. No receding; no
retreat. But being now returned; now once for all; for good
and all ; for if again retreat that also may be for good and
all. Nay, must be : for what left afterwards but to retire
indeed and go out ?
To thy work then, thy art, thy life. The sole business, the
main concern. Life itself and all that there is in the matter of
living. The only real living (as the voluptuous men say of
theirs), the only worthy, the only natural, according to nature,
by the art nature has given us, the power of mind and of right
reason — make it right then here [in living] as it is there [in
nature] ; make things here accord with things there ;"" correct the
lower by the higher ; answer the one by the other ; mere
174 The Philosophical Regimen.
imaginations by proved ones; uncertain dictates by stated
decrees ; secret suggestions and whispers by plain utterance.
Let us hear again those voices high up, distinct, aloud. Idea !
wait a little, and so the rest. The discipline, the inversions as
before. Thus manage, thus deal with fancy : or must we spare
her, indulge her a little by whiles and upon occasion ? Shall
the judgment be left to her ? Of what ? Shall any the least
thing be allowed her ? What ? wherein? and who shall judge ?
For if she for herself, then is she judge of everything ; if
not for herself, then of nothing, in nothing. — Nothing, therefore,
or everything, for if anything, as well everything ; if this be all
" because I fancy."
1 The house turns round. — No, but my head turns, that's all.
What is reason but a power of judging the fancies ? Is every
thing as it is fancied ? Are all fancies right ? Then the house
turns when I am giddy. But no. I know the fancy to be
wrong. — Am I not out of order ? Do I not dream ? — Who says
or can say this besides man or a creature rational like man ?
For if an irrational creature be moved by any such fancy, he
follows it without more ado, for what has he better to correct it,
set him right, or tell him that he dreams ? And what is
pleasure, what is conceit, what is a life of fancy but dreaming ?
Where is that that makes the difference ?
This is that faculty, art, SoKL/macrTtKrj q a.TroSoKiju.aa'TiKii
[This moral approving or disapproving faculty. — Epict. Disc.,
Bk. I., c. i., § 1]. And if I am without this, am I not distracted ?
2 He who imagines precipices before him cries out for help ; says
there are mountains in his way when he walks on even ground ;
and when all is well, quiet, and still, cries " Fire ! Deluge !
Earthquake ! Thunder ! " Does he not rave ? But one whose
eyes strike fire, or whose head is only giddy from a ship, or who
from a distemper in his ear, hears many sorts of noises ; though
all these fancies in being with him are the same and as strong as
at other times when occasioned by outward things, yet he being
in a way of resisting, judging, correcting these fancies, is in
his senses (as they say) still, nor is he out of himself, though
his senses are out.
1 cf. Characteristics I., p. 322. 2 cf. Characteristics I., p. 324.
Fancies or Appearances. 175
How is it, therefore, as to other fancies ? — A king appears
— and what then ? So in a play a king appears, also guards,
courtiers, lords, attendants. — But this is but a play. And what is
this other ? When the tragedy chances to Ibe over-moving, and
the action strikes us, do not we say to ourselves instantly,
" This is but a play ? " Is not this the correcting, redressing,
rectifying part ? And how does this part carry itself in that
other play — the serious one of life ? How does it manage in
this scene ? Is it here still the same ruling, leading, commanding
part ? the jJye/xow/coV ? [the reason.] — A king, a real king appears.
Right; it is a real king, and not a player; not one of those
kings of the stage. So far I am right. So far the correcting and
confirming part goes along with me, so much it allows good.
But what else do I see besides a king ? Here comes the trial.
What is a king ? — A man. — Right. — A man in power. — Right
still ; but in what power ? In a power by which he is happy
and blessed ? Hold ! here is a new matter. All this, and what
follows upon this, is new. I am astonished. — Why ? — I admire,
applaud, envy, wish. My head turns round. — No, but I am
right. I cannot but believe myself it must be thus. — Am I not
mad ? for were I giddy only, I should know it, and saying to
myself that I was giddy, immediately be unconcerned.
The order is sent for my imprisonment, banishment, death.
— Right. But what is imprisonment ? — Staying within. What
is banishment ? — Removal from one place to another. Death ? —
An end of breathing, struggling for life, and against vice and
corruption. What loss ? What is death ? — Misery ! misery ! —
How ? Where ? Which way ? Dost thou not know before
hand, art thou not sure, most undeniably sure (or what else
canst thou ever be sure of ?) that misery is nowhere in these
things ; nowhere from without ; but, together with happiness,
from within, only from within ? So that in this place, when my
fancy and I are all one, am I then myself ? When the senses
are by themselves, and there is no supreme sense above them, am
I then in my senses ? When they report, and nothing better
than they take the report, have I my reason ? Or if I say I
have my reason, but at the same time judge by fancy, and not
by reason, am I sound in my reason, or am I master of reason
any sooner for this ?
176 The Philosophical Regimen.
How is it then, after I have judged of death, disgrace,
poverty, riches, honours, as I have done, sedately done, maturely,
deliberately, that I should come (see !) in an instant to change
thus and believe the contrary? For if I believed not, neither
should I be moved. How is it that I assent ? How is it that I
join voices with the fancy and cry out, " Misery ! misery ! "-
Happiness ! Misery ! Is not this the same as above ? Fire !
Earthquake ! Thunder ! — Seas of milk and ships of amber !
When certain inflammations, soft lambent flames, or playing
sparks arise, which seem so innocent and gentle at first, then
the leading part may in its turn cry, " Fire ! Fire ! Bring the
engines, <pcpe r«9 TT/O 0X17^6* 9," &c. [Apply the recognised
principles. — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xxv., § 6].
QuSeis Se cJeiXoi/ KctTacrKOTrov Tre/uLTrei, &c. [No one sends a
cowardly scout, who, if he only sees a shadow cries, " fly friends,
the enemy are here." — Ibid., Bk. I., c. xxiv., § 3-4]. Shadows
indeed, and to be thus afraid is to be afraid of one's own shadow.
But on the contrary hear ! OvSels, <j>rja-i, TroXe/zto? eyyJ?
ecTTt "TravTa elpy]vrj<i ye/Aci [There is no enemy near, he says; all
is peace. — Ibid., Bk. I., c. xxiv., § 9]. — Is there nothing then
to be feared ? No report to make ? — There is, and a shrewd
one. Enemies with a witness. ^euyere eOr] TO. Trporepov [Fly
from your former habits. — Ibid., Bk. III., c. xvi., § 16]. Fly !
Save thyself. These are no shadows.
Fancy has spoken ; 'tis now my turn. " Good ! is this all ?
have you any more to say ? Let us hear all out, and then
answer, but speak out ; speak plain, high up, aloud ; no
muttering, no half words, no whispering, dumb signs, nodding,
winking, and those other mysterious sly ways. Away with
this. 'Tis not to be endured. — If thou hast ought to say
(fancy), say it ; let us hear patiently, but if from one thing to
another I interrupt : ' To the point (fancy), to the point ! ' Is
not this what you advanced just now, though you have since
passed to other things, and so to other heaping, mixing, con
founding ? But to bring things to an issue, that we may fix
somewhere : let us take it up here, let us hear distinctly. Was
not this the suggestion ? These the words ? or thus and thus ? —
Said you not so or so ? — These were the words. — Repeat them.
Once again. — Again, a third time. — 'Tis well. By your leave
Fancies or Appearances. 177
then ; a word ere you depart ; I must talk a little in my turn,
and be familiar, very familiar : as well I may, for thy turn
(fancy) has been long enough."
T/ GUV oxSe Trover?, <5 0cu/ra<r/a ; [What art thou doing here,
Fancy ?— Mar. AureL, Med., Bk. VII., § 17]. Thus must the
persuader, the deceiver, the fair impostress, enchantress, be
talked to; sometimes fairly, sometimes (as they say) roundly.
Or if thou talkest not thus with her; expect that she should
talk with thee, on a high tone ; put thee to silence, and manage
thee as she pleases.
One of these two must ever be, viz., that a man has his
fancies in right discipline, turning, leading, and commanding
them ; or they him. Either they must deal with him, take him
up short (as they say), teach him manners, and make him know
to whom he belongs; or, this will be his part, to teach the
impostress Fancy and her train ; show her what she is herself,
and whom she has to deal with.
This is to be a man.
By whiles this question. Am I talked with, or do I talk ?
For something still there is that talks within and leads that very
discourse which leads in action, and is what we call conduct.
—Whence then the conduct ? What leading ? what control ?
who governs, or what ? — Thus in a family : l Who rules in this
house ? Who's master ? — Learn by the voices. Who speaks
with a high tone ? Who decides and gives judgment ? Who
has the talk, the last word ? Is it the servants ? — Then the
servants are masters. — And dost thou blush at this ?
How is this, man ! What ! Jealous for thy authority in thy
mansion-house and outward family, but not in the least for thy
authority within, in thy chiefest mansion, thy principal economy ?
Are the servants here to talk high and in what tone they please ?
Must theirs be the last word, their dictates the rules of action ?
O slave of slaves !
How necessary this counter-discourse with the presenting
fancies, and how real it is or ought to be, learn by the too long
experience of the other of wrong kind. What ability,
promptitude, dexterity in those ? As particularly in the cases
1 cf. Characteristics, I., p. 823.
178 The Philosophical Regimen.
of the &o£dpiov. What they now say of me. What they will
say anon. — <3 ayaOo?. — " Extraordinary ! wonderful ! nobody like
him." — And often whole panegyrics devised thus and repeated
extempore for other people and put into their mouths ; teaching
them what to say, and ridiculously saying for them. This chiefly
after any little success in the world, in business, company ; and
as fancying to have left some mighty impressions behind. — Rare
ingenuity !
And hast thou so long endured this, knowest thou the way
so well, hast thou been so long good at this, so able, so expert, at
this invention, to find talk and discourse within ; so much enter
tainment with self and about self (though indeed a wrong self) ;
and canst thou now at last be wanting in the same way, now that
thou hast a better self to talk with and be concerned for ; now
that things go better far and turn upon another hinge ? Or
went it better the other way ? Was it better as then ; viz., and
" What will they say of me ? " " What does such a one think ? "
Or as now : " What do I say of myself ? " " What does a higher
One think ? "
SIMPLICITY.
TTOTe ap , u> T/'fX^' aya$?7j KOI a.Tr\n, KCU /u/a, KOL
<j)avepa)Tepa TOV TrepiKeifJievov aroi (rto/xaTO? ', [" Wilt not thou then,
my soul, never be good and simple and one and naked, more
manifest than the body which surrounds thee?" — Mar. AureL,
Med.y Bk. X., § 1]. O, wretched blindness, not to see and
admire this beauty above all beauties ! O, mean and despicable
condition to see this, such as it is, and not enjoy it.
The senseless part of mankind admire gaudiness : the better
sort and those who are good judges admire simplicity. Thus
in painting, architecture, and other such things, the greatest
beauties are what the vulgar despise : and thus even in furniture,
habits, instruments, and arms, plainness and simplicity are the
most becoming, and are the greatest perfection. For where
proportion and exactness are wanting, there it is that there is
need of those additional ornaments ; but, where order is
preserved and the perfection of art attained, the rest only does
prejudice and is an eye-sore. — All this is right, but take care
lest, while thou admirest simplicity of this sort, thou forgettest
another simplicity infinitely more beautiful and of more import
ance. Remember, therefore, what the perfection of man is,
and that beyond this, to seek for anything, or aim at any other
ornaments, is to lose simplicity, and become that gaudy piece
of painting or architecture which he that is knowing despises.
Whenever there appears anything which, for its beauty and
simplicity, is charming to the sight, though it be one of those
ordinary things, such as a vessel, or urn, a sword or any other
arm, a habit or a dress, remember still what it is that resembles
this in life : unity of design, so as to exclude hypocrisy, false
ness, mysteriousness, subtlety. But this also extends itself to
carriage and behaviour, countenance, voice, jest. What are
all those forms and manners which come under the notion of
good breeding ? The affected smiles, the fashionable coughs,
179
180 The Philosophical Regimen.
the tone of voice, and all those supple caressing and ingratiating
ways — what is this else but embroidery, gilding, colouring ?
The perfection of carriage and manners is between the
ruggedness of one who cares not how he gives offence, and the
suppleness of one who only studies how to please. And this is
simplicity ; for affectation is as well on the one side as on the
other.
What care, what art, what labour, to attain the true
simplicity of an action ! But when attained how pleasing and
beautiful ! Nor are any pains so well bestowed. For what is there
that has a worse feeling than affectation ? Who would not
willingly be rid of it ? For, in the same manner as in the
carriage and behaviour, nothing is easy but what is natural ;
so, in the practice of the world, in conversation and life, all is
uneasiness and constraint where simplicity is wanting. But to
affect this ease or freedom where it is not, is to be most of all
constrained and unnatural.
Those that speak knowingly in matters of behaviour and
carriage talk of nothing but ease, freedom, liberty, unconscious
ness ; but confess at the same time that there is nothing harder
than this to attain ; and so far the thing is certain. What can
be an easier, happier part than to live disinterested and
unconcerned, as being loose from all those ties and little mean
regards which make us to depend so much on others ? What
can be more generous and of a better feeling than to go through
companies, conversations, and affairs in the security and sim
plicity of mind ? But this happens not till the thing itself
after a certain way, comes not to be thought of, and that those
standing by are no longer considerable or awful. For in the
same manner as in a court he who has once formed himself
and knows his own faculty carries with him an assurance of
not failing in anything, and is, therefore, free and easy in what
relates to carriage, ceremony, and all those other affairs, so, in
the whole of life, he who is secure as to the great events and
is concerned but for one thing (which if he will himself, he
need not miss), he, and he alone, is truly free ; and with respect
to things within, is becoming, beautiful. He alone has every
thing orderly, still, quiet ; nothing boisterous, nothing disturbed ;
but every motion, action, and expression decent, and such
Simplicity. 181
as is becoming that more noble and far superior character
of one who in another sense is called well bred, with respect
to a different discipline and breeding.
Imitation, gesture, and action in discourse ; different tones
of voice, alterations of countenance, odd and humoursome turns
of speech, phrase, expressions ; — all this is agreeable in company,
and may set off a story, help in an argument, or make anything
to be felt which one would desire should be so. But all this is
utterly wrong, harsh, dissonant ; out of measure and tone.
All that is vehement, impetuous, turbulent must needs be so:
as well as all that which in any degree borders upon mimicry,
buffoonery, drollery. Consider what a mean and contemptible
state the mind is in at that instant when it goes about anything
of this kind. What it aims at : what its end and scope is : how
it looks upon itself when it fails and is disappointed : what
kind of joy it has when it succeeds : what sort of minds those
are which partake with it in this way, and are the ablest in this
art ; and what morals, manners, life, this brings along with it.
But suppose now (what is far contrary) that by quitting
this we were likely to lose the esteem of friends. Is it not
better to be dull, silent, and unentertaining, but so as at the
same time to be sincere, just, modest, and duly reserved ? Is
it not better to be truly sociable, retaining true simplicity and
gravity, than, by being what the world calls sociable, to give up
these and live a stranger to social affection ?
Never fancy that thou hast acted a small or inconsiderable
part in company, however small thy part has been in the
discourse, if all the while thou hast preserved that temper
which was due ; if thou hast neither been at earnest, nor eager,
nor over-concerned, nor over-joyed ; if thou has neither studied
to show thyself, nor hast contended, nor reproved, nor flattered,
after the ordinary way ; in short, if thou art come out of the
conversation free, undisturbed, unlessened, and without prejudice
to simplicity, integrity, or ingenuity. And on the other side,
where there has been any prejudice to these, or that the least
footstep here has been awry, think not, on any account, that
matters have gone well, nor be contented though the success
in discourse appear ever so happy, or to have been of ever
so good consequence.
182 The Philosophical Regimen.
Remember the modern Theophrastus, who calls politeness
a more refined sort of flattery. Examine, therefore, what
politeness is consistent with simplicity and what not.
Remember that sort of dissimulation which is consistent
with true simplicity : and besides the innocent and excellent
dissimulation of the kind which Socrates used, remember that
other sort (not less his) which hides what passes within, and
accommodates our manners to those of our friends and of people
around us, as far as this with safety can be allowed. Remember,
therefore, what countenance is to be shown even then when all
is grave and solemn within. So far be thou from any industrious
affectation of gravity, or from seeming in the midst of company
to meditate things of a high nature, and to despise what thou
art about. But see that this be sincere, and not so as the
struggle may appear ; for this would be a worse sort of affecta
tion and more intolerable than the first ; and if so, what must
that sort be, where without any real ground for any such
struggle the appearance of it is yet affected ? How nauseous is
this ! and how amiable the contrary carriage ! — The first degree,
therefore, is to need this dissimulation, and to be really grave
and inwardly intent on other things. This next is to be willing
to dissemble this, and to be satisfied without making ourselves
either the burden or the admiration of others. And last of all, our
business is to see that we be always sincere in this, and to take
care that we do not ill dissemble, for it is then that this becomes
what we properly call dissimulation : nor can anything be
farther from true simplicity and ingenuity.
How many disturbances and torments do we endure for
want of that true simplicity ? what jealousies ! what discontents
and private envyings ! Yet these pass generally unnoticed,
and though there cannot be more uneasy moments than those
we feel on this account, yet we never reckon these, nor cast
these into the scale when we weigh the good and ill of life ;
and not to mention other passions, how much do we suffer
in this way merely from curiosity ? But, indeed, how is it
otherwise possible ? for how can we concern ourselves in outward
affairs, as matters of consequence, in which we place our good
and ill, and at the same time not be solicitous to hear ? or not
come off dissatisfied and mortified when we are denied hearing,
and are excluded from the concern ?
Simplicity. 183
Remember, the true simplicity must ever be accompanied
with gravity and a certain becoming reservedness, otherwise
simplicity perishes. And as for that opposite character, that
familiarity, inwardness, freedom, and openness of a certain kind,
which thou dost term simplicity ; this is not simplicity, but
affectation, and nauseous affectation. Such is all that intem
perate lavish talking, and of self particularly. — " / have such and
such faults ?" Keep them to thyself ; make the right use of them ;
mend them ; not multiply them ; not draw vanity from them,
and a new ground of conceit, new matter for idleness, trifling,
impertinence, looseness of tongue, and ungrateful, ill feeling,
familiarity, and intimacy, which is out of all harmony, concord,
time, measure. — But thou wouldst willingly declare thy faults
and show simplicity. — Wait a moment, and there will be occasion
given. Stay till thou art reproached for something. Stay till
somebody says he knows nothing, he is ignorant, he is little
worth. Show this to be true : show in what and why. Help
the person that thus blames : and if he blames maliciously, and
thinking that he has no reason ; show him that he has reason,
and that he blames not without cause. Here is the occasion
to speak thy faults (if thou wilt needs speak them). Here it
is that simplicity may be shown. 'Eai/ TL<S a-oi aTrayye/A?; OTI
o Seivd ere Ka/ca>? Ae'ye*, w a-TroAoyov TT/OO? TO. \exOevra, aAA'
airoKplvov, &c. ["If a man has reported to you that a certain
person speaks ill of you, do not make any defence to what has
been told you ; but reply, ' The man did not know the rest of my
faults, else he would not have mentioned these only.'" — Epictm
Ench., c. xxxiii., § 9]. But thou art far from this simplicity ;
and, therefore, what is all that other but affectation ?
To discourse with others about the work of self-improve
ment; about what passes within; what vices remain; what
remedies and application, is like that sort of pedantry which
tells of distempers and physic, what water has been made,
what stools. Man ! what have we to do with this ? Take thy
physic, purge, vomit, that thou mayest be well and come abroad :
but what have we to do with stools ? why talk to us of phlegm ?
Form a good constitution : be healthy and sound : appear without
ulcers, without scabs, or scurf : show the effect of the physic ;
but not the drugs and operation.
NATURE.
>} Oav/ma^eTe ei TO?? JJLCV aXXot? faois, &C., vvv S
GTT\ TOVTOI? evxapivTelv, &c. [" Be not surprised if other
animals have all things necessary. — But we, instead of being
thankful for this, complain of God, that there is not the same
care taken of us likewise." — Epict Disc., Bk. I., c. xvi., § 1, 6].
So has nature ordered for the other creatures; such is their
hardiness, strength, robustness, readiness. — But why not the
same for man ? — Say as well, why not wings for man ? why not
the air and all the elements of nature for man ? why not nature
itself for man, not man for nature ? — But if it be not nature for
man, but man for nature, then must man, by his good leave,
submit to the elements of nature and not the elements to him.
If in air, he falls ; for wings were not given him to fly in air.
If in water, he sinks ; for he has not what is necessary for
water. If in fire, he consumes. But upon earth he can do
well ; though not within the earth either : not in every part of
earth: but on the surface of the earth only; and of such and
such earth ; not over-moist, as a morass ; not over-dry, as sandy
deserts ; nor over-hard or steep, as rocky mountains. For these
places may be for other creatures, but not for him. So little
even of this element of earth is after this manner his.
But let us suppose wings for him, to fit him for the air,
if we could imagine anything for him to do there ; how must
his make be changed ? See in a bird : is not the whole structure
made subservient to that almost single end ? Is it not in a
manner all wings ? two vast muscles that exhaust the strength
of all the other, engross the economy, and swallow up the frame.
How else could they perform a motion so vastly disproportionable
to the other motions, if not made in this disproportion superior
to the rest, and starving the other parts. And in man (according
to his present model) were the flying engines and members of
this kind to be added, must not the other members and parts
be starved to feed these new ones ? Or can the same matter
184
Nature. 185
serve for one as for the other ? In mechanics, the same
engines have equal force in one thing as in another, in one part
as in another, for twenty different purposes at a time as well
as for a single one ? — What absurdity ! — Where then should this
new anatomy be found ? what new muscling for these parts ?
and withal equally for those ? where the animal spirits, the
blood, humour, juices, for these and for those ? If this be
certainly absurd, where is the absurdity in saying the robbed
parts must starve ? for can the same spirits feed equally, nourish,
supply equally, when saved as when consumed ? or is there no
certain stock or proportion of spirits ? Must the animal spirits
in every creature be ad infinitum, and not in any certain
proportion as the creature is bigger or less, or the organs fitted
to prepare more or less ? — If this be absurd, what can be more
reasonable than, in the case supposed, to say the spirits cannot
be both here and there, not diverted from their parts or
members, yet equally feeding their parts or members ? for in
this high-flying man will there not be parts that must suffer for
the ambition of their fellows : and while these new associates
are supplied, must not the feet, hands, stomach itself shame ?
And how, pray, as to the brain ? must not the brain also starve ?
See how it is in man even as he now is, without any such
notable addition of new parts. How is it, in the first place,
with the stomach when the brain is over-much employed,
especially soon after eating ? How is it, in the same case, with
the pores ? Are those doors kept as well when forsaken by the
spirits as when guarded by them ? How is it when a mathe
matician or other student thinks too intensely ? Does not the
brain itself then starve the body and parts ? And, on the
contrary, when the body and parts are chiefly minded, nourished,
exercised, as in a wrestler, racer, rider, fencer, dancer, have not
the parts their reprisals ? Does the brain find itself as well
in this liberal dispensation to other parts as when the spirits
are used to flow a little more plentifully into their channels
there, and are not drawn off so much another way ? And if it be
thus between man and man, how between the body of a man
and of one of those creatures ? If the balance be so just and
even here, if so nicely held by nature that the least thing
breaks it, in creatures of the same frame and order, what would
186 The Philosophical Regimen.
it be to change the order quite, and make some essential altera
tion in the frame ? — What would it be indeed but monstrous ?
for what else is a monster ? or what else are our imaginations
of this kind but monsters ?
In this view then, consider what the divine man says here,
and see how ridiculous the complaint is which he so well
exposes — " Why was I not made strong as a horse, or hardy and
robust as this or that creature, or nimble and sprightly as the
other ? " — And yet when uncommon strength of body and great
things are added of that kind, even in our own species, see the
consequence, what happens.
Therefore, it were better and more modest for a person
so much in love with an athletic Milo-like constitution not to
ask, " Why was I not made strong as a horse ? " &c., but " Why
was I not made a horse ? " for that would be more suitable.
Being convinced of these follies and of the poorness of
these objections, go to those simple but Divine operations, those
simplicities of nature which for want of simplicity are so little
felt. See the Divine care and order so obvious, and, therefore,
for that very reason so unminded and disregarded, because so
obvious. See those beauties which in certain lucid intervals the
vulgar see, poets and painters declare, and the luxurious them
selves confess. Only a right disposition is wanting, and simplicity
to judge of these simplicities, these only beauties, truths,
excellences. What is the rest but grotesque ? what is atheism
but nature-grotesque ? Nature seen thus in masquerade, dis
figured, charged, as they say in painting, and after a kind of
caricature ? And how this grotesque without ? How but
from the grotesque- work within ? See the effect of those
masks, the buffoonery, drollery, and burlesque. — Beware ! —
Or wilt thou go again into those views ? Shall it be nature-
travestie ? For how is it that this happens ? how preserve the
right views ? how lose them ? — No more ! Remember then.
1 Such is the admirable distribution of nature, its adapting
and adjusting not only of the stuff* or matter to the shape and
form, and of the shape and form to the circumstance, place,
element, region ; but also of the affections, appetites, sensations,
1cf. Characteristics, II., 306.
Nature. 187
instincts, passions, mutually to each other as well as to the
matter, form, action, and all besides. All managed for the best ;
with perfect frugality, and just reserve ; with perfect liberality
too and utmost bounty. For how bountiful if profuse ? How
a just economy if employing in any one thing more than enough,
which force might have been reserved for something else ? Now
what a reserve of this sort may we observe in the make of all
creatures in general ? nothing superfluous in all their structure.
What a reserve in the particular creatures for their chief
function, whatever that be ? So in the instances just above,
what reserve for those creatures of the air to add force to the
chief part of their mechanism, and to lighten and ease the rest ?
what reserve in creatures made for swiftness, either to prey, or
save themselves from those of prey by running only ? What a
reserve and management for everything that is principal in
every creature ? And should there be none for the brain of man ?
Or is not his thought and reason the thing principal in him and
for which there should be reserve ? Would he have his vigour
to be spent rather another way ? Would he have no saving for
this part of the engine ? Or would he have the same stuff or
matter, the same instruments, organs, serve alike and full as
well for different purposes, and an ounce (as they say) go as far
as a pound ? It cannot be. What would he have of a few
ounces of blood in such a little vessel fitted for so little a part
of nature ? Will he not praise nature, will he not adore the
artificer who has thus managed his portion for him with this
happy reserve (happy indeed for him, if he knows and uses
it), by which he has so much a better use of organs than any
other creature ? by which he holds his reason, is a man and not a
beast ?
But beasts have instincts, which he has not. — Right. They
have perceptions, sensations, and prse-sensations (if I may use
the term), which man for his part has not. And can anything
more commend the order of nature than this very thing ? Is
not this according to that admirable economy, that wise, equal,
and just reserve, which we have spoken of just now ? The
females of all creatures though young, and having never as yet
borne young, have a perfect prce-sensation of their state to
come, know what to provide and how, in what manner, and
188 The Philosophical Regimen.
&i what time; the season of the year, country, climate; the
choice of place, aspect, situation, the basis of their building,
materials, architecture; the method and treatment of their
young ; in short, the whole economy of their nursery : and
all this as perfectly at first and when unexperienced as the
last time of their lives. — And why not this, in human kind ? —
Nay : but on the contrary, why this ? where was the use ?
where the necessity ? why this sagacity for men ? Have they
not for their parts sagacity of another kind ? Have they not
reason and discourse ? Does not this teach them ? What need
then of the other ? where would be the prudent management
at this rate ? where the reserve ? — The young of most other
kinds are instantly helpful to themselves, sensible, vigorous :
know how to shun danger and seek their good. A human infant
is of all the most helpless, weak, senseless, and longest continues
so. And wherefore should it not have been thus ordered ? where
is the loss by it, in the midst of such supplies ? Does not this
refer man yet more strongly to society, and force him to own
that he is purposely and not by accident made rational and
sociable, and cannot otherwise increase or subsist but in and
by society ? Is not conjugal affection, natural affection to
parents, duty to magistrates, love of a common city, community,
or country, with the other duties and social parts of life, deduced
from hence and founded in these very wants ? What can be
happier than such a deficiency that is the occasion of so much
good ? What better than a want so abundantly made up and
answered by so many enjoyments ? Now if there are still to
be found amongst mankind such as even in the midst of these
wants are not ashamed to deny themselves by nature sociable,
where would their shame have been had nature otherwise
supplied these wants ? What duty had been ever thought of ?
What respect or reverence of parents, magistrates, their country,
or their kind ? Would their full and self-sufficient state have
better inclined them the sooner to have acknowledged nature,
the sooner to have owned and reverenced a God ?
CHARACTER AND CONDUCT.
T/ra <J>avTao-iav eya Trep\ e/mavrov ; TTOJ? e/xairra) x/ow/xaf ; [What
do I imagine myself to be ? How do I conduct myself. — EpicL
Disc., Bk. II., c. xxi., § 9].
All turns upon the nature of a Character ; and according to
what the fancy make of this, so in general the conduct will
prove ; and so matters in conversation succeed one way or
another : for this is always what occurs at those times. What is
the character I am to maintain ? How shall I act according to
my character ? Who am / ? — Such a one ; the son of such a one ;
of such a family, such a country, of such an estate ; with such a
title — What am I worthy of as such a one ? — an equipage, a
certain dress, ceremonies, place. — What are the things beneath
me ? — an ordinary habit, a mean appearance, obscurity, contempt.
Thus, when at any time in company with foreigners, presently
this occurs. I am an Englishman. How preserve my character ?
How gain esteem to England ? — Man ! what is England to thee ?
Why reckon from hence ? Why not the parish ? Why not
Europe ? But, be it so, I am a native of those islands, of one of
those islands, or of a part of one of those islands, as being the
same government and under the same laws. I disdain to call
myself of such a parish or town, which is but a part of that
greater government. And is there no other government or city
of which even this is still only a part, and in respect of which
this is no more than a cabin or hut ? What are the laws of that
city in respect of these other laws ? Which of these administra
tions is most just ? which of these laws the most ancient, wisest,
most perfect, most durable, most inviolable ? which inferior
and subservient ? By what laws, and for the sake of what city
was it that I was brought into being, created a man ? From
whence did I receive my organs of sense, my faculties, my
understanding, my reason ? Where, then, is my native country ?
where is that government or city from whence I can properly
name myself, and which is not as a province or district of some
189
190 The Philosophical Regimen.
other ? Begin now, and consider anew, who am I ? S/c^/rat, rt?
€?. TO TT/OWTOI/ aV0/oa>7ro9 [Consider who you are. In the first place,
a man. — Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. x., § I.] — Such a one, the son of
such a one, of such a name ? — No. — But what ? who ? — A man, a
rational creature, of such a descent, of such a habitation ? What,
am I worthy of as such a one ? what are the things beneath me ?
But this is imaginary. — How imaginary ? Was it my native
country (as I call it) that gave me my being ? Did the common
wealth decree my birth ? Were my parents the artificers of my
frame, or were they anything more than instruments ? To what
do I belong therefore ? and to whom ? Who is the author of
my being ? and what has He made to be my excellence and
highest perfection ? Consider : thou art a man. Does this
signify anything or nothing ? If nothing, what besides is
it that thou callest honourable ? Why all this conceit and
valuing thyself ? Why offended if at any time thou art
meanly thought of and passest for a brute ? Where is the
«/
difference ? Dost thou not say there is none ? Is it not enough
that thou hast meat and drink and what else thou desirest of
that kind ? Why, then, dost thou aim at anything further ?
Why value thyself on the qualities of a man if there be no
particular character nor dignity of a man ? If there be, where
is it ? Where, but in that by which he differs from a brute ?
What is a brute ? — Stupidity, gluttony, lechery, savageness. —
What therefore is man but reason and humanity, faith, friend
ship, justice, integrity ? Now consider : how is this character
saved, how lost ? When is it that I act according to my make ?
When do I preserve the dignity of my nation and birth ? What
am I worthy of ? and what are the things beneath me ? Is it
not beneath me to dissemble, or flatter, or court ? Is it
not beneath me to stoop to applause and solicit grace and
favour ? Am not I worthy of liberty, generosity, constancy,
magnanimity ? Why, then, do I talk of anything else as
beneath me ? Why consider what else I am worthy of ? — But
it is beneath me to be seen in such a habit. — Procure a rich one,
and wear it ; for thou art worthy such a habit : thou art worthy
an estate, a coach, an equipage. What shouldst thou do with
poverty or hardship, or how manage any such circumstance :
thou who wert never born to liberty, generosity, or greatness ;
Character and Conduct. 191
or if born to it, hast renounced thy right and made thyself a
slave ? What shouldst thou do but fawn and stoop, where there
is hope of riches or renown, or honours or advancement ? For,
what dost thou know that is better or higher ? Remember,
therefore, either thou art above these things, or not above them.
If not above them, do all that is necessary in order to gain them :
dissemble, flatter, court. But if this be beneath thee, how can
disgrace or poverty be beneath thee ? How can that be beneath
me in which I can most of all show myself to be a man ? How
can that be unworthy of me which is my noblest talk and
performance ?
What is it then thou art worthy of ? Resolve, either the
one or the other. Either thou art worthy of constancy and
magnanimity : or of that which is contrary to it, pusilanimity
and meanness. Either thy worth and character is in a title,
name, estate, and then liberty, constancy, magnanimity are
nothing ; or if thy worth and character be in this, then the rest
is nothing. And remember, rtva $e'Aet? KO\OV TTOICIV . . . r/ ovv
e^aipeTOv e'xe*? ; TO £(f>ov ', • ' TO xPri(rTlKOV $carrcuFiCU§ ', ou • TO
XoyiKov e'xei$ efaipeTov • TOVTO KOO-JULCI [" Who is it whom you
would make beautiful ? What then have you particularly
excellent ? Is it the animal part ? Is it the power of using
appearances ? No. The excellence lies in the rational part.
Adorn this."— Epict. Disc., Bk. Ill, c. i, § 24-26].
Wilt thou never have done with that fancy of a name * and
character in the world ? pleasing thyself in this ? referring still
to this ? What is this more than a face or dress ? what is this
but another sort of effeminacy ? — af Barrus, one that wishes to
be called a beauty, a judge in clothes, a dancer, a shape. Thou
fearest an ill report. Thy character will suffer ; so will thy face
if thou exposest it to the sun or wind. — What must I do then ? —
Stay within doors and be careful of thyself, as the women are ;
for, what should such a one do in a camp but be ridiculous ?
How impossible is it to preserve any real character, whilst
that other fancy is in existence concerning a character in the
world ?
* To 8o£dptov.— Mar. Aurel. Med., Bk. IV., § 3.
f Horace. Sat. I., 6, 30.
CHARACTER.
(Xa/oa/cr?7/o.)
If the first of the three l great ernes (who had the pre
paratory part — Epict., JBk. III., c. xxi.) involved himself as he
did, and in those times, how much more thou ? and in these ?
If the age then bore not a declaration, how much less now ? —
Then not ripe : now rotten.
Remember, therefore, in manner and degree, the same
involution, shadow, curtain, the same soft irony ; and strive to
find a character in this kind according to proportion both in
respect of self and times. Seek to find such a tenour as this,
such a key, tone, voice, consistent with true gravity and
simplicity, though accompanied with humour and a kind
raillery, agreeable with a divine pleasantry. — This is a harmony
indeed ! What can be sweeter, gentler, milder, more sociable,
or more humane ? Away, then, with that other sociableness ;
that inwardness, intimacy, openness. How false, how unfounded,
how harsh in reality, and unfitted for what it is designed ; how
unfitted for their good whom it is meant to serve, and for thine,
in respect of thy own character, conviction, improvement !
Indeed the very reverse of all.
But truth ! truth ! — Remember that truth is best preserved
when those thou conversest with are made to think most truly
of thee ; and this will least be when thou speakest most truly
or most simply in this way, or wouldst correct, rebuke, and teach
with the same simplicity. Seek, then, the true simplicity : for
this thou usest with them is not so. As for gravity, used in
their concerns, as hoping or expecting better of them, this is in
good earnest ridiculous; and not only that, but in another
respect tyrannical and barbarous.
Firm, steady, even, upright, between these contrary blasts,
efforts of humour, temper, sallies of disposition, the gay, light-
1 Socrates, Diogenes, Zeno.
Character. 193*
winged zephyrs, and the ruffling Boreas or heavy Notus. —
Colossus-like, fixed, poised with equal footing and foundation on
each side — a promontory parting two seas. These and more
images, examples, models may be taken from the highest things
to illustrate this simple and (in appearance) humble, mean,
insipid character; this middle genius, partaking neither of
hearty mirth nor seriousness. For what to do with such a one ?
How borne with ? — Nevertheless to persist herein ; stand
firm; keep this station, tenour, harmony. This, as difficult
as it may seem, yet by attention and hearty application may
most easily be preserved, if on the one hand thou strenuously
resist what offers from the vulgar side and that facetious comic
kind, whatever it be of wit, jest, story, and the like ; and if, on
the other hand, thou as strenuously resist and abstain from that
as ridiculous seriousness and solemnity in these affairs, eager
contention and striving in the concerns of others, and for the
reformation and conviction of others. — Notable reformation
without conviction ! Notable conviction, as things stand with
them and with thyself ! — Away then, no more.
Firm, steady, &c. — Equal between these two extremes of
different brows. Both mixed in a manner; convertible,
communicable by an easy change from one into another; not
starting, not shrinking from one another; not constituting two
different souls, two different men, differently known, differently
accessible, differently to be treated, spoken with. Ridiculous !
In humour ; out of humour. Now no jest ; now no earnest.
Now play, odious ; now seriousness, more odious. All joy (good
news !). All sorrow (bad news again !). All this or all that ; and
when one meets the other a jarring, a harshness, frightfulness.
Stay a little till I am in tune. O excellent harmony ! O life !
Shall it be still thus ? Wilt thou never think of any other
character ? No more then. Have done with this game. No
more of these parts to act, no tragedy, no comedy (mere comedy) ;
no dismal, no deplorable ; no dainty, delicate, pretty, sweet. Be
this liked or not liked, be it dull, be it insipid, what it will ; yet
be thou constant to it, such as it is; constant in this medium,
this certain third thing ; neither solemnity nor drollery ; neither
seriousness nor jest.
Nor jest ; nor earnest ; for what jest with one who
p
194 The Philosophical Regimen.
considers vicissitudes, periods, the immediate changes and
incessant eternal conversions, revolutions of the world ? Again,
what earnest with one who considers but the same ?
Earnest: but not in earnest. Jest: but not really jest. For
where is jest ? and where earnest ? In the things within is
earnest. In the things without, what is all but jest ? Now the
first are never meant ; the latter everywhere. How talk then of
the first ? How be earnest or in earnest, if thou wouldst ever so
feign ? But if the talk be never of the first but of the latter
only, how talk of these and be serious ? See then if the greatest
seriousness be not a very jest. Therefore, be it jest or earnest
with others, it can be neither to thyself. Their jest, their
earnest: both in a manner a jest. But the use of this jest, a
serious matter and far from jest. See then to use it right
within; and for without remember the medium and find the
balance as becomes thee.
Never to leave till this balance be brought right, or pretty
near to an evenness : though the way to this be through such
frequent changes and unevennesses, for so it must be to a
beginner. — This was too light; this too heavy. Here feathers,
there lead. — Why this sad tone ? Why dismal ? Why the
tragedy ? and anon again the comedy — all joy ? From whence ?
for what ? in what world ? what circumstances ? Art thou ready
for a change? Will the reverse not be unseasonable? — Good,
then. Be it so. There let it stand, the balance is right. But if
the balance be not there, nor near there; make it more even;
weigh, ponderate, redress, from one scale to the other ; and go on
thus removing, taking out and putting in, by this measure, this
examen. — If pleasantry, as how pleasant ? and what room for
seriousness ? If seriousness, as how serious ? And what room
for pleasantry of a certain kind ? What are the kinds of each ?
How will they stand together ? how break in easily and kindly
without violence to one another ? how mix without constraint ?
how pair, without being monstrous, or engendering anything
monstrous ? —
Such must be the freedom, such the easiness of this
communication and transition in a free mind ; free to either
circumstance, either season, either way ; equal as to what offers
in either kind. — No hanging, changing, sticking. No wish, nor
Character. 195
choice, nor disposition to one more than to another ; not whining
and then simpering, now this uppermost, now that. Nothing of
all this ; no delay or hindrance from temper, not a government of
humour ; not the ascendant mood, or prevalent fancy. Elevation
and depression, rise and fall. — Good news, bad news, all alike. —
Is it news indeed ? News to me ? — What news ? Is it a concern
to me ? — What concern ? — Away ! —
Such then must be the test of this earnest jest, gravity,
mirth, sorrow, joy, or whatever it be, still, much one and the
same, no mighty difference. A mirth not out of the reach of
what is gravest; a gravity not abhorrent to the use of that
other mirth. In this balance seek a character, a personage,
manner, genius, style, voice, action. Here the decency, propor
tion, and grace of all. This the study, performance, and music
of life. Nor can this ever be obtained without a perfect and
absolute check of that which now prevails and has prevailed so
long, carrying thee as with the stream, beginning indeed in jest,
but ending in earnest. — Miserable sympathy !
See, then, the best practice and exercise is to go by
contraries, just in the teeth of temper, just opposite to humour.
— Am I disposed to laugh ? how disposed ? what senseless
disposition is this ? Now check, now give the turn, now learn
the true authority, command, and how to make temper obey.
— Or am I disposed to lament ? — Lament what ? thyself ?
or the poor world ? — But others are melancholy, others mourn. —
Do thou mourn then, be in black ; forbear eating, speaking, or
whatever else, for company, and as accommodating thyself ?
But why mourn within ? — Nay, but they are now changed.
They are gay again. It is a holiday, a birthday. — Put on the
birthday suit, the holiday suit. But what holiday within ?
what revel wouldst thou keep there ? — Beware, then, and for
safety's sake apply contraries (for here is the danger). Turn the
edge the other way, present the point, and keep temper aloof.
Thwart, cross, perplex, and break it thus, till it become
manageable and the impetuous steed be softer-mouthed, easily
guided, as with a thread, and governed not by his own head but
by the master's hand. — Be it so. Mind but the exercise, and fear
not ; thou wilt soon have a good seat and appear in it as easy to
others as thou wilt be really easy and unconstrained thyself.
196 The Philosophical Regimen.
Again : Jest ? — earnest. — Earnest ? — jest. — Where is the
earnest ? The jest where ? — But see ! the earnest. — What ?
Death ! — Is this the earnest ? Usque adeone mori miserumes ? Is
it so dreadful to die ? [Virg.,(En. XII, 646].— But infamy !— What ?
with whom ? for how long ? — The town ! the world ! — O jest !
Country ruined ! — The storks' nests. Jest still, jest all. — But is
there not something which may make this to be earnest, and
does make it so, commonly, whether we will or no ? — Right.
This is earnest. This is the thing. This (and this alone) is no
jest ; viz., when that which should be jest is earnest with us.
But why whether we will or no ? What hinders but it should
be jest with us, as in itself it is ? What but wrong jest ? It is
this that is in the way : jest in wrong places : mere jest, foolery,
trifle ; the ordinary common pleasantry ; for if it be jest there, it
will be earnest here.
The world, or philosophy, a jest : one of the two. — Which,
then ? Say, and be not thou a jest thyself.
No more of that which if received as jest will make
philosophy, religion, virtue, honesty, a jest, or which being taken
as earnest will make life, riches, fortune, pleasure, fame, the
possession or loss of these, to be earnest.
No more then. If there be, however, a facetiousness, a
humour, a pleasantry of a right kind, proportionable and always
in season, just, even, and spread alike through a whole character
and life, sweet, gentle, mild, and withal constant, irrefragable,
never inwardly disturbed whatever outward economy may
require ; if there be this thing, this true, innocent, excellent jest
and pleasantry; let this be the care, how to preserve this jest
and keep it the same; how never to be false to it; never to
betray it, sacrifice it, prostitute it ; never basely to yield it up to
that other vile and scurrilous jest, most incompatible with it, its
bane, destruction, and extinction. Let there be no raillery of
that sort, no drollery, no buffoonery, nor any thing that but
borders upon it : not if a thousand companions, friends, cry out
or wonder, or are displeased ; not for a thousand bribes the one
way, a thousand admirations, exclamations tjSvs avQpwjros [What
an agreeable fellow], and the rest, nor for a thousand of those
contrary invectives, slights, pityings, and the quantum mutatum
ab illo ! [How changed since then !].
Character. 197
Remember another character, another dignity, another
humour, pleasantry. — The Socratic genius, this mirth, these
jests, these turns, and this simplicity. The chatter of the
Roman comic poet and what he borrowed hence, and from his
Socratic masters. But for Aristophanes, a Plautus, a modern
play, modern wit, raillery, humour, away ! This is earnest,
Petronius earnest. Jocus risus et cupido, the muses and the
graces of this sort ; earnest, sad earnest.
And is it earnest still ? 1 — How with the company ? with
relations, the table-talk, disputes, debates, news, the public, the
world ? Think if a Lesbius stood by, and asked the question,
"Is not this earnest?" — Something like it, indeed too like
it. Instead of Lesbius then, do thou thyself remember thus
to ask thyself in domestic politics, at table, at play (whatever
play), " Is not this earnest, or what is it ? "
Since recovered2 from thy long distemper, and now likely to
live for some time, and as far as a broken constitution will
permit to be active again in affairs of the public and friends;
remembering the first and early cautions (more necessary and
incumbent now and in this state), the laws as in Parliament, &c.,
with which thou must now again take up; begin as formerly,
for there is need enough after neglect and so much time given
to bodily affairs and weakness. Begin again as above : upon
character, familiarity, &c. : remembering the natural secretion,
modesty, and decorum ; and remembering the deformity and
nauseousness there spoken of (p. 142) as belonging to a certain
openness and affectation of intimacy. For now these things are
growing again, and by a prosperous state of public and friends,
and a less difficult one of family and fortune, they lay hold and
bring back to the same follies, and now more than ever inexcus
able manners and character.
Begin then. Consider some late warm sallies and excursions
in relation to public as well as family and friends. — Whence the
loss of character ? — first inward, then outward : for the latter
must soon follow. Yet put a stop here if possible, that the
former may recover ; allow a breathing time. But if the first
coming to sink, the latter be flung away after it, as in a kind of
1 St. Giles, February, 1705. 2 gt <^egj January) 1707.
198 The Philosophical Regimen.
despair ; this is desperate indeed, and will bring on a real
desperate game.
Be more composed and weigh this well. Let not the
speciousness of simplicity and an open part deceive thee. The
best simplicity is to go on in mending faults, not staying to tell
or explain them. See then where the fault lies.
The overthrow of all character is from an over-promising
or a desponding view of affairs administered, though originally it
is from the first that all ill arises. The first leads to a sort of
uncertainty, the other to a resigning : both equally wrong.
Matters having a little succeeded, self -applause arises, and hence
engagement and forwardness, beyond the measure and true tone
of life. On the other side, matters growing ill, or succeeding
a little worse than ordinary, self-disparagement arises, and
thence aversion to all business, love of privacy, and violent
affectation of retreat and obscurity. The latter is mere
pusillanimity ! as the other was rashness and mere madness.
In the former of these cases, certain schemes and plans
are formed : Platonic commonwealths, reformations of states,
families, and private persons, thy own labours made known, what
progress already made, what more expected. Excellent explana
tions ! And to whom all this ? To the wise ? Would they not
deride thee ? Or to the vulgar ? And dost thou not deride thyself ?
In the other case, account is to be given (forsooth !) why
these affairs have succeeded thus ill ; by what hindrance from
thyself, from others, from the age, from the nature of things. —
Again excellent explanations ! And to whom all this ? Where
is the harmony of such a conduct ? where the proportion of
character ?
Strive, therefore, against this, by all ways and means
possible; and what other way but by that rule to go by con
traries, just opposite to humour, just in the teeth of temper.
Do things succeed well ? — Wonderful ! who would have thought
it? Now, therefore, be diffident; now forebode; expect all ill.
Think of what lies at the bottom, et ignes suppositos cinero
doloso [and of fires hidden beneath treacherous ashes]. M^ yap
ov \eLpova KOI \a\€7ru)Tepa TT po<rSe\eTai TO. Trapa TWV <j>av\u)v ;
[Does he not prepare for worse and more grievous miseries
from bad people ? — Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. v., § 8.]
Character. 199
But on the other side, Do things go ill ? — What wonder ?
What else did I expect ? Were not these the terms ? Now,
therefore, be bold, now lively ; now confide not as the poet's
hero, spem vultu simulans [feigning hope in fall], but heroically,
indeed, and at heart, without deceit, suppressing grief and
exalting the mind, so as to have it full of hope, yet without
dependence, as at a game. And thus inward simplicity and
outward economy may be reconciled. For what if the first
motion be dejecting, it is resisted, conquered, despised. The
second is the true. Let that be seen, so much of it as is proper,
and at a proper season, when secure of thyself and returned
again to thy own right mind and real self. Or wouldst thou
discover a disordered false self, make others to take advice of
the strife within, and call them to be witnesses to this thy
regimen and treatment in thy sick state ? O wretched sim
plicity indeed ! O beggarly humility ! Is it for pity that these
ulcers are uncovered ? or want they to be scratched ? Is not
this calling to others to see, handing about the phlegm and
stools ? If this so pitiful and mournful way delight thee, say,
then (in a yet lower character), TL yap CL/JLL ; raXa/xwpov
avOpwTrapiov [For what am I ? a poor contemptible man. —
Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. iii., § 5], for this is better than to disgrace
the art which should make thee happy and show thee so to
others.
Away, therefore, with this fulsome openness and deceitful
simplicity. If things go wrong, rejoice with an innocent sort
of malice and sportiveness, as at those plays of cards or dice,
where a more than ordinary run of fortune, though against
ourselves, is taken pleasantly, as comical and entertaining to
ourselves and others. Not so, I confess, when any great matter
is at stake. But what matter here ? What besides the play
itself ? Is it any more than play, mere play ? — But it is part
of the play to seem in earnest. — Right : and therefore do thou
seem in earnest, and as one who in good earnest hopes and
confides; for so thou dost, though not as they perhaps may
understand it. But they can understand no better. Do thou,
therefore, accommodate thyself to their understanding, and do
not perplex and confound them with certain views which
thou wouldst never think of communicating with them if thou
200 The Philosophical Regimen.
wert not thyself already in confusion and hurry of mind. So
much more monstrous is it, at this season above all, to be open
and familiar in a certain way. Here, therefore, resist equally
as in the other case of success, but hide the resistance. For to
show the struggle in this case is abject and mean, like one that
cries for help; and to show it in the other is ostentation and
insolence, like one who would show his strength, such a strength
truly as nobody cares for. Who are they that can relish such
severity ? Where are the friends that will not complain of
philosophy in this case ?
Let temper, therefore, rather than principle, bear the charge.
Be severe over thyself ; but appear so as little as may be with
safety (for this is the main). And if joy and alacrity in one
case, or concern and care in the other, be thought wanting, it is
better to bear the censure than to relax or apologise ; better pass
as extravagantly light, sullen, or mysterious for the time, than
by a dangerous accommodation give way to the wrong affection ;
or by a foolish openness expose mysteries which will create
greater mysteriousness and misunderstanding than before. But
a sincere carriage without affectation may bear thee easily
through all this. Nor is inward severity (in the thwarting
either of joy or grief) so very hard to be hid, if honestly meant.
But suffer it once to aim at appearance, let it but seem to want
witnesses, and see presently how nauseous and offensive ! What
a character !
Therefore, consider of this ever in this double respect.
Remember both the first and second resistance. As first, how
pernicious the not resisting inwardly in both the fortunes ; and
in the next place, though this first resistance be stoutly made in
both, yet how wrong not to resist also in that other sense of
outward explanation. Here, therefore, as elsewhere, apply the
rule, cWxoy /ecu aTre'xov [Bear and forbear].
As the loss of inward character draws on the loss of out
ward, so the loss of outward helps forward that other loss.
Save, therefore, what thou canst and make not things worse by
endeavouring to mend them. If at any time the inward
character suffer, keep at least the outward. Keep it within
reach and recovery. Do not sign and seal to thy folly. If to
publish thy wisdom and strength in the preservation of inward
Character. 201
character be in truth but folly, and the very overthrowing of
that character thou wouldst preserve ; what must it be to
proclaim folly itself, expose thy loss of character, and show thy
own weakness, whether as sparing or condemning it ? For this
is all one, condemning in this place is but sparing : it is pitying,
bemoaning, flattering. Didst thou go roundly to work and take
thyself to task in good earnest, there would be none of all this,
no room, no leisure for such fine speeches, such appeals, such
explanations before such people. What have we to do with
such confidants ? Is it health and strength thou feelest ? Why
boast of it ? To what judges ? what masters of fence ? Or, are
they weaknesses and relapses that sit heavy ? Be it so. How
shall we lighten them ? To what physicians commit them ? To
what surgeons shall we lay open such sores as these ? In what
company unbind such wounds ? Or must it be as a spectacle or
beggar-like to move pity ? Beggarly indeed, and abject; if any
thing in the world can be so, yet is this abjectness inseparable
from that other insolence. The same indulgence of grief, or
the same admittance of humiliation so seemingly modest and
which passes for such an expression of social feeling and
humanity, is the actual cause and nourishment of that contrary
impotence of temper in joy and exultation ; when a small
alteration happens in affairs, and elevates just so much more
as the preceding state of affairs had power to depress. So
effectually do these opposite dispositions co-operate and help
forward one another.
What scene of affairs ? What management ? — Successful,
prosperous ! OVK eXeyoV trot, aSe\<j>e ', [Did I not tell you,
brother l—Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. xvi., § 16.] Did not I tell
you how I should manage ? — What ? — A family, a state, or, if
occasion were, an army. — Wretch ! manage thyself ; learn there
to be a rider and to have a seat and hand, for if thou hadst one
there it would not be talked of here, but shown without talking.
But if thou wantest a hand even there, how much more here ?
What wonder if thou art flung off, or trampled on ? Where
are now thy vaunts ? — But mankind is unruly : the beast is
headstrong. — Why now, more than before ? Wretch ! wilt not
thou bear thy fall patiently, take the just reproof, put up the
affront, and learn to be wiser the next time ? Who bid thee
202 The Philosophical Regimen.
go these airs ? What need of setting out in this career ? why
the great saddle and the trappings ? Go : take thy pad again ;
thy plain homely beast, thy mule or ass. Manage what thou art
fit for, and hast strength to manage, and mount not where thou
art so soon liable to be thrown and made contemptible both to
others and thyself. For were thy seat as it should be, no fall
would ever be such as to cause disgrace ; all being done that
art with strength proportionable could perform. Beware,
therefore, of high mounting; or if, forgetful of this, thou art
soon again dismounted, bear with it, swallow it, as they say,
keep it to thyself. No excuses or bemoanings. It is thyself
thou accusest, and before thyself ? It is thyself thou hast
injured : nor art thou to make others amends, but thyself only.
Why, therefore, trouble others ? This is pleading for outward
character, not labouring for that within. And as just Providence
will have it, we lose even our outward character by this sacrifice.
Nothing deprives us of it more directly, no quicker way to lose
the shadow, even though the substance could remain with thee,
whilst thus greedy and dog-like as in the fable. For what can
lessen thee more with others than to be seen dejected on the
account of outward things, as they will always esteem it, though
thy trouble be indeed of a better sort? But if thou art concerned
at their thinking thus of thy concern, what is thy concern then
in reality but for outward things ? Nor is it any wonder if this
dejection be the forerunner of a new presumption ? For the
same foreign opinions, differently operating according to the
event or success of outward things, must of necessity alike
produce both that false simplicity, shameful nakedness, dejecting
humility, and also that contrary and anxious forwardness, vain
openness and temerity. And what harmony of character these
two make together is easy to see.
Alas ! what am I ? An infirm creature, of body and mind ;
out of the world and practice, yet not in philosophy and the
possession of virtue, half - knowing, half - learned, pedantic
(o^-i/xa&fc), &c. — If this be inwardly spoken and not aloud, if
•.this be in the closet or study, in retiring time, and not in time
of action, if this be rather in success and after elevation (as
in the use of the cold regimen), it is excellent, and to be
promoted, encouraged, aggravated. Say not then pedantic
Character. 203
in the vulgar, but in the deepest, sense : say " one
born out of season," the sores, the wounds, &c. — But if this
contraction of thyself, this humiliation, be the contrary way
and at another season, consider how abject, vile, and how
contrary, in effect, even to that which it pretends, viz., modesty
and the a8i/j.ovfj. For how soon again will the note be
changed ? How soon a contrary tone ? Not " Alas ! what am
I ? " but " Behold ! what a proficient I am, how strong and
firm in mind, and if by nature or accident not altogether so
in body, yet by art and care how well. In circumstances how
well ; in character same. Philosophy, economy, management.
— " How excellent, noble ! "
These are the tides (a spring-tide indeed !), the ebbings and
the Sowings; all from the same cause. And wilt thou ever be
thus stranded; left dry ashore, exposed thus pitifully, and
almost fatally, not knowing which way to get off the shoals or
clear of these quicksands ? Whence all this but from the bold
launching out, the trust to the sky, the high top-gallant sails,
the negligent pilot and merry crew ?
Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum
Semper urgendo, &c.
[You will live more wisely, Licinius, if you press not always
out to sea. — HOT., Od. II., x., lines 1-2.] Turn that sense
hitherward, and despise the cautious horror and tempting,
betraying shore.
Neque dum Procellas
Cautus horrescis, nimium premendo
Litus miquum.
[Nor yet, dreading the storm in your caution, keep too close to
the unfriendly shore. — Ibid., I., vi., 2-4.]
Timidity here proves rashness. The same rash opinion creates
the evil as the good, where in reality there is neither. To sneak
is but to prepare for boasting and vain conceit. As this is poorr
senseless, contemptible (for why boast ? and of what ?), so is that
ridiculous, and to be sported at. For why dejected ? and for
what ? Why tell thy tale, why sing thy ditty (wretch !) thus
mournfully ? Why tragedy ? Why a stage ? Why witnesses ?
204 The Philosophical Regimen.
What is this unbosoming ? Wouldst thou have no bosom ? no
reserve ? no heart for thyself ? Or what heart if thus bestowed,
thus prostituted, and made common ? Or will this commonness
not hurt it, not pollute it ? Will it be more truly that common
public, honest heart for being in this sense made common and
laid open ? — Away with this simplicity, if this may be so called.
No more of this false humanity, sociableness, humility. No
more shrinking thus (poor snail !) into thy shell ; a notable
refuge and security ! — Hold up thy head, man ! and if thou hast
been a fool, see it and be wise at last. But be not a yet greater
fool in seeking the applause of such whom, instead of winning,
thou wilt by this means render less tractable, and make both to
despise thee more and use thee worse. And where at this rate
will be thy part so much insisted on ? Where thy influence or
service which thou pretendest to ? Will not all character, both
inward and outward, be thus overthrown ?
Sed verae numerosque modosque ediscere vitae [" The
harmony of life is my concern." — HOT. Epist, II., ii., 144.]
This is character. But if for outward ears only and the judg
ments abroad, what difference between this labour and that
other — Verba sequi fidibus modulanda Latinis? [To fashion
words to fit the Latin strings. — HOT., Epist, II., ii., line 143]. Con
tinue, therefore, and keep the harmony, if possible, uninterrupted ;
if not, restore it again as soon as possible, and dwell not on the
miscarriage. No echoings, no repeatings ; no running over again
what is past. If anything slipped in the music, if a finger went
wrong, a false string struck, a time mixed, pass it over and go
on undisturbed, for this is the next perfection of art, not to
interrupt, not break the symphony, not let the music sink nor
the ear dwell upon what was wrong, but drown it by better
play, overcome it by an easy transition and agreeableness of
what succeeds. — But no, I have failed in the rule of art ; I must
stay and show the error. This stop was wrong, this key, tone,
measure. — O Pedantry ! And how in life ? Must the gamut
there, in the midst of play, be conned over? Must it be sol,
la, mi, fa ? Dost thou not know that, even at the best, these
rules are burdensome and irksome to those who are not of
the art? Was this so hardly seasonable in that very school
.and those days, too ? and wilt thou nevertheless abroad, and
Character. 205
in such days as these, come out with such things, suspend
performance to make demonstrations and by these excuses
teach thy art ? — Rare pedagogue !
Mind but a certain physician of thy acquaintance, one
sufficiently knowing in his art (simply understood), and see
how a certain method and behaviour of his, somewhat like
this last spoken of, has succeeded with him. As, first, how
the thing appears in itself; with what kind of grace and
accommodation; how it renders him to others whom he strives-
so much to instruct and convince; how towards his patients
themselves; and last of all, how towards himself, and in his
own temper and character. With other physicians it is generally
far otherwise. Be ashamed, therefore, that such as these, in
the use of common policy, and for the interest of their arts
should observe so much a better economy and character than
thou (wretch!) in thy own case and in behalf of thy art and
practice, so superior to all other.
How long since all this was seen and noted ! How long
since another character was sworn to ! — No apologising ; no
show of inward work; no hint; no glance. — The purple
only. No earnest, clearings, &c., cares, mystery. — The honest
irony, jest.
Return, therefore, again, as above, and remember the involu
tion, the shadow, the veil, the curtain. To the false character
here treated of (the impotence of a certain kind) apply that of
Marcus Aurel., Med. x., 33 — M^ 7rpo<j>a<rl£ov, &c. [You will never
cease to lament until you can do with enjoyment whatever is
conformable to your own nature], and not in the strength of this
and the chief Aoy/xa : that of Homer, used by Marcus Aurel.y
Med. xi., 31 —e/mov S' eyeXacrcre (f>iXov Krip (Od. ix., 413) — [and in
my heart laughed].
So our Scripture (applying it to what has been heard
and learnt in a better way than in common conversation) .
"If thou hast heard a word let it die with thee; and be bold
it will not burst thee." — Eccles., c. xix., v. 10.
Take therefore the Word in a higher sense, and as used
in Scripture, for discipline, knowledge, message, euayyeXiov,
but not to be preached as that other. So again in the same
Book, c. xxi., v. 26 : " The heart of fools is in their mouth ;
206 The Philosophical Regimen.
but the mouth of the wise is in their heart," and soon after
the prayer, which begins at the last verse of Chapter xxii.
(where the chapter is absurdly cut off from the dependent sense
which follows), " Who shall set a watch before my mouth and
a seal of wisdom on my lips ? " &c.
FANCY AND JUDGMENT.
(Qavracrta real Siry /caret 0ecn$.}
DISEASED FANCIES. — 'Airn? yap yeVeo-t? TrdOov?, OeXeiv n Kal
M ylvevOai [" For the origin of perturbation is to wish for
something that is not obtained." — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xxvii.,
§10].
'Ourco? aueXei KOI TO. appcoo'Ti'juaTa viro^vearOai \eyovcriv oi
<f>i\6(ro<pot. [" In this manner, as philosophers say, also diseases
of the mind grow up. — Ibid., Bk. II., c. xviii., § 8.]
Si volnus tibi monstrata radice vel herbd
Non fieret levins, fugeres radice vel herbd
Proficiente nihil curarier.
[" Some root or simple you are told to use
As panacea for a wound or bruise,
You try them, and they fail you ; surely, then
You'd never have recourse to them again."
— Hor., Ep., Bk. II., ii., lines 148-157.]
The prescriptions of the vulgar-wise, like those of the
ipiricists. They know only the symptom : apply only to the
rmptom. — Man ! go to the cause, cure in the blood. Or what if
te humour be checked in this part ? what if the breaking out,
le heat, the swelling be struck in, goes it not to another part ?
ut solet, in cor
Trajecto lateris miseri capitisve dolore,
Ut lethargicus hie cum fit Pugil et medicum urget.
["As pains fly from the side or head,
And in the chest appear instead,
Or, quickening some lethargic lout,
Boxes this doctor's ears about."
—Hor., Sat., Bk. II., iii., lines 29-31.]
But a small matter will satisfy, a pretty circumstance (as
they say) to make him easy. — Thus a wench, a handsome wife, a
207
208 The Philosophical Regimen.
table, a coach and horses, a fine house, a garden. — Excellent
prescriptions ! — And how then ? — Presently nauseate. — No, but
I enjoy still the same. — Wars and wars. See what will come of
it : how inveterate the disease is growing . What effeminacy,
tenderness, niceness. How as to fortune ? How lookest in the
world ? How ordinary human infirmities and casualties ? How
sickness, age ? Natales grate numeras ? [Do you thank heaven
for each new birthday that you live ? — HOT., Epist., II., 210.] —
How temper ? — Spoiling, spoilt. — The child, brat, woman. The
man, where ? How ?
To starve the preying fancies that starve the principal part.
The same as in a stomach spoiled by variety, high food,
repletion. — Retrench, abstain, and thus hope for a recovery;
cut off the sallying, roving, lowering, high-flying, ranging
fancies, the ill-paired, the monstrously copulating and engender
ing ones, centaurs, chimeras, cockatrices, and the spawn of this
kind.
This is the beginning. First purge (as the physicians say) ;
evacuations ; then restoratives. Now remark. See if these be
but retrenched, whether the mind will not turn itself a right
way, find itself better work, and the Aw/a/zt? x/07?0""^ TOOV
<t>avTa<riuv [power to use appearances], and go honestly and
roundly about its business. Take it once but from ill employ
ment and see if it get not good. Spare its labour, force, and
ingenuity in wrong matter ; and see if it become not ingenious
in right.
But patience awhile. It is dull and heavy as yet ; so it is
with the ruined stomach. But let it be pinched a little, allow it
but to be empty, it will come to itself. Or if in the real stomach
(that of the body) it be not so, depend on it that in this other
the thing cannot fail. The rule is infallible here, the regimen
certain, and the medicine a specific : ^pe/uujcrare 777 Siavola [Be
tranquil. — Epict. Disc., Bk. II, c. xxi., § 22].
THE ASSENTS OF THE JUDGMENT.
PERSUASIVE FANCIES. — T/oeiV TOTTOI . . (1) 6 Trepi ra? opegt?
KOI ra? e/c/cX/cref? (2) o Trepl ra? o/o/xa? /ecu a^>o/o/x«9 (3) o TTC/CH Ta?
a-vyKaraOea-cis [There are three things in which a man ought to
exercise himself who would be wise and good : (1) that of
desires and aversions : (2) that of pursuits and avoidances : (3)
that of the assents (or judgment). — Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. ii., § 1].
— O that it [judgment] were here, and that it only stuck here.
Yet, as it is, it must be here in some degree. For how the first
place without some help from this 1 — But keep the order and
remember the TO. TrdOt] [the passions] and this last (whatever is
borrowed from of it) for the first. Uiov Se avOpwirov .
TU)V TriOavuiv <l>avTacriu)v . . . icai Tf] Trapovcrrj (pavTacrla ei
tva fj.r\TL aKaTaXrjTrTOv Trapeiarpvr] [It is the proper work of a man
to form a just judgment of plausible appearances — and to
scrutinise present impressions so that nothing may enter that
is not well examined. — Mar. Aurel,, Med., VIII., § 26, and
VII, § 54].
O sophistry ! artifice and deep laid design ! so artful as to
appear all simplicity ; so natural as to seem almost nature itself.
T/ yap rovTtav Trpoa-rjvea-repov [for what is more agreeable than
this. — Mar. Aural., Med., v., § 9]. O imposture ! powerful,
charming, persuasive name rj Trai/ra? TOV$ av0pa)7rovs irXavwara
[who leads all men astray. — Cebes]. What an offspring ? what
a brood engendered ? what machines, hosts, giants ! — Loves,
appetites, desires. — Opinion, fancy, all — all from this sophistry.
" Irresistible powers ! Gigantic forms ! Whence all your
strength, dimensions, weapons and array ? The pointed steel,
the viper-teeth and scorpion stings. — What sting ? and whence ?
— Opinion, fancy — '£} ^avraa-ia. Thine is the sting: thine all
the force : thine the dominion, power. From thee this empire,
Q 209
210 The Philosophical Regimen.
without thee all faints, languishes, and dies. Loves, appetites,
desires, all live in thee."
" To thee I come then, with thee is my concern, thee alone.
'Tis thou that must form me or I thee. Loves, appetites, desires,
fears, horrors, anguishes, and all ye host of passions ; stand by ;
retire and wait aloof the issue of this conflict. If I am overcome,
the field, the place is yours : sack, pillage, plunder, ravage. But
if I prevail, retire for ever; ye are nothing, nor have no
pretence."
Responsare cupidinibus [to restrain the appetites. — Hor.
Sat, Bk. II., vii., line 5]. No such thing, but Kpicris <f>avTaa-lais
[examination of the fancies]. This is the thing. Here the resist
ance — the father (opinion) subdued, the children fall, of course. —
Sampson's locks, Achilles' heel. Here strike. No dealing, but
this way only vincible, penetrable, tractable. This way and in
this sense responsare cupidinibus [to restrain the passions] ; to
bear up, to be a match for them ; to give them (as they say)
.their own, and send them back as they came.
Therefore, again, TL ovv &Se Troiei?, & (pavraa-la ; 'A.irepxov
TGI/? 6eov$ croi w? ?A0e? [What art thou doing here, O fancy.
Go, I entreat thee, as thou earnest. — M. Aur. Med., VII., | 17].
In this manner to the fancies of the first and second sort, (1)
the absolutely vicious, (2) the mixed, and the rest, and in their
several shapes, with language suitable, and real discourse, not
making light of this, but remembering it as a thing essential, as
the chief discourse, and the life of all. Thus, then, when in the
worst shape. " Traitor thought : viper : false and inhuman
dogma, TO Orjptov OVK avOpwTriKov — enormous, monstrous, immense,
begone. — Down rebel, impostor, corrupter. — A vaunt ! Aloof ! —
Expect no quarter here ; no refuge, sanctuary, nor entertainment
in this breast; thou sacrilegious wight, thou violator of all
inward peace and harmony, all humane laws and all divine.
Sink, hideous spectre, vanish back to chaos. Down in the womb
of night where thou wert bred. Down, spurious thought, blind
progeny of night. Down And thou, fair offspring of
eternal truth, arise and usher day."
Phosphore, redde diem. [Phosphor, bring back the day.]
In another shape — "Insinuating, sly, busy fancy! Off!
— To your distance, I beseech you. Not so familiar neither. — No
The Assents of the Judgment. 211
whispering nor buzzing in the ear. No hugging (good,
vagabond, dame!) Know your betters and who is mistress
within. — Here is nothing for you (believe me), ask ever so
long, or say what you please. Go to others that know you less
and believe your stories. Go to your companions, your equals,
your inferiors, whom ye need not beg of, but may govern with
a word and make of what you please."
In another shape — " Thou dear, delicate creature ! Sweet,
gentle, loving, fond idea ! — Thou witty, pretty, fair one ! What
would'st thou have ? To whom art thou solicitress ? And to
what ? Whom is it that thou courtest ? For whom these
flatteries and caresses ? Why are these charms thus lost ? thus
ill bestowed, and in vain ? — It will not be. Go to, go to, thou
wanton! Wait not till thou art frighted hence. Here are
things within will make thy poor weak nature shiver, and strike
thee dead with fear. — But be advised, retire in time."
Quo blandae juvenum te revocant preces.
[" Where the soft prayer of youth recalls thee." — Hor.,
Od. I., c. xxi., line 8].
Sirenum voces et Circes pocula nosti.
[" The siren's song you know and Circe's bowl." — Id., Epist.
II,, c., i., line 23].
Mene salis placidi vultum fluctusque quietos
Ignorare jubes ? Mene huic confidere monstro ?
[" Do you bid me pay no heed to the face of the calm sea
and the quiet waves ? to trust to this monster ?" — Virgil, Aen.,
V., lines 848-9].
In another shape — Enchanting, wondrous form ! mysterious,
dubious ! — How shall I know thee ? how discover thee, fly thee,
know thee ? I must and question thee.
" Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape
That I must call thee —
Hold ! for as yet thy name is wanting, which, when thy nature
is known, shall frankly and without flattery or fear be given
thee. — Oh, easy decision ! short question ! ready resolution !
(what tragedy ? what solemnity ? what emphasis needs there
for this ?) Any ghost ! phantom ! air ! — 'Tis over. This is the
212 The Philosophical Regimen.
charm. These are the words. Pronounce them, say them, but
right, and with a good heart, and there is nothing to start at :
nothing that can perplex, nothing that can haunt, astonish,
terrify. Tis done. Alas at an end.
Again to the four sorts : —
1. The wild beasts, boars, tigers, lions, that tear, devour, and
lay all waste.
2. The chimeras, sphinxes, centaurs, that haunt, delude,
perplex, amaze, distract.
3. The sheep, oxen, swine, and necessary cattle, that soil,
fatten, and make a stable of the mind.
4. And last of all, the playsome kind for entertainment, the
parrots, apes, monkeys, and the viler sort. These, the worst of
all, and most to be feared. 'AXa>7re/ce?, ACGU a>? ej/ fwot? aruxni^ctTa
[Like monsters among foxes and animals. — Epict. Disc. I., c. iii.,
§ 7], and hence that likeness there spoken of. — Out with this
vermin, choose a nobler combat, a better chase.
Aprum aut fulvum descendere monte Leonem [A boar or a
tawny lion comes down from the mountain]. Death: Banish
ment : Ignominy KOI TTOLVTCL ra Sciva (JHUVO/ULCVCL [and every other
thing which appears dreadful]. And in this manner ovSev ovSe-roTe
OUTC TdTreivov evOu/uirjO^crr] [You will never think of anything
mean. — Epict. Ench., c. xxi.].
To the first part : the ravagers (nor is that the worst idea),
eating canker worms, gnawers, corroders, vipers, creepers, and
crawlers, such as truly cause and are the occasion of creeping
and crawling, and of every base prostitution, pollution, villainy.
— O cockatrices !
To the second sort, creatures of two parts; monsters
preposterously composed. Go to the anatomy ; dissect, separate
with the instruments that are given. Divorce the unnatural
pair, divide the monster, &c.
To the third sort. To the fourth sort.
Conclusion. To all in general. Again the same still TL ovv
wSe Troiets u> <j>avTacria ; [What art thou doing here, O fancy. —
Mar. Aur., Med. VII, § 17].
"Perverse, obstinate Ao'y/*a. Thou had'st as good begone
betimes, and for once bidding ; thou had'st as good retire as be
turned out by force. 'Tis true thou earnest naturally, that is to
The Assents of the Judgment. 213
say, the usual way, and according to the liberty that is given
thee, or that thou takest with everybody. 'Tis well. Thou hast
had thy time. But things are altered. Times are not now as
then. Be advised and retire ; if not thou shalt have a wretched
life, a sad time of it; no ease, no indulgence, no rest, dunned
eternally, reprimanded, lectured, schooled. Who would endure
this? And to what purpose? For advance thou never shalt,
never prevail. Therefore, good Aoyycta, in charity let me entreat
and conjure thee ; begone, torment not, nor be tormented."
NATURAL CONCEPTS.
GENERAL PRINCIPLES. — ILepl ru>v TrpoXjifsewv. — Epict Disc.,
Bk. I., c. xxii. TO KO\OV TO Trpeirov [The beautiful. The fitting].
To alar\pov \JSCKTOV ecrrf, TO Se ifseKTOV a£iov €<TTI TOU \fs€ye(r0ai
[The shameful ought to be blamed, and that which is blamable
deserves to be blamed. — Ibid., Bk. III., c. xxvi., § 9].
Shameful f — are you not ashamed ? — and 0 shame ! shame !
— What ? Where ? Is there such a thing then ? Is it the
number, quality, power of those that cry shame that can make
where it is not ? Is it made or unmade by people's voices ? or is
there that which is shameful in itself, let who will say otherwise,
or though it be thought ever so honourable ?
To flatter the tyrant is at court no shame, and what if the
whole world were a court, or thought as they think at court,
would flattery be no shame ? — No, for what is virtue or honour
but opinion ? What is vice or shame but opinion ? Go on and
say what is parricide, ingratitude, treachery, but opinion ? And
hast thou no shame that sayst this ? — Yet see ! There are those
who very philosophically and religiously (as they think) say
this, and establishing morality make virtue and vice, shame and
honour, to be nothing but as custom or opinion make them. O
excellent religion ! admirable philosophy !
Low, pitiful, sneaking. — What matter, so it be not known,
so it be in the dark (as they say), so that the thing be gained
which was aimed at ? What matter for the means ? What is
sneaking ? What is cringing ? — Smiling, bowing low, stooping,
and (if occasion be) creeping, kissing hands, feet, or anything
else. — Where is the harm ? How does this hurt ? Does it ache ?
or smart ? or pain anyway ? Does it pain to take up a hand
kerchief or buckle a shoe ? Why not stoop as well here ? — Hang
it ; I can't stoop. I hate sneaking, I can't sneak. —
Is sneaking really ill then ? — Miserable, detestable. — Really
214
Natural Concepts. 215
so. — Really.— Come on then, never fear, man. Thou mayst be
wholly good and virtuous. Nay, thou must be so. It will follow
of itself, for I will pawn my life of it, all vice is but sneaking, and
that except in vice there is not so much as a ground for such a
thing. Fear but sneaking, and thou canst fear nothing else.
Love but generosity, and I will engage thou shalt all thy life
have subject enough for good action, and all that is called generous
and noble. — Matter shall never be wanting, nor ways nor means.
Thou shalt not be less generous for want of an estate. Thou
shalt not be less heroic for want of armies to conquer with or
worlds to conquer. An Alexander may well sneak, for he served
women, wine, fame, his own slaves. Even a Hercules may sit
down and bemoan himself that he has no feats to do, no boars
nor monsters to clear the world of. But a true Hercules need
not fear this, that is to say, to be even as generous, great, and
heroic as he pleases ; for in true heroism there is no reckoning
by the scene. It is not the greater or the less scene. It is not
as the decorations or ornaments are. It is not in the parts, but
in the action that all lies. The theatre is the same, the scene all
alike. The presence the same, and as for those we call spectators
and observe so much, it is rather an advance of character to have
them absent, or if present disapproving, reviling, reproaching.
For this is not only heroic, princely, royal, but God-like, divine
/3(xri\iKOv /ULCV ev TrpaTTeiv, /ca/cto? Se aicoveiv [It is royal to do good
and to be abused. — Mar. AureL, Med., vii., 36]. For how is it
even with the divinity itself 1
Foul, sordid, vile, stinking. — What stinks ? Smell the
metal (as a sordid prince said), does this stink ? Are the courts
of tyrants or the chambers of their mistresses stinking ? Is
anything politer, sweeter, fairer ? Though whence all this, and
how it is here, thou art very certain. Does the minion, the
favourite, the delator, the betrayer of his country, the bought
patriot, the minister, or so much as any under-engine of this
sweet place, stink ? Is anything neater, slicker, sprucer, than
one of these ? — Meanwhile, look yonder on the honest man, how
he goes ! how it is with him ! is he as sweet ? has he wherewithal
to keep himself thus neat? — But the minion's part was foul.
The tyrant is a monster. The whore vile. — Is there then inward
vileness ? May action possibly stink ? and is there on the
216 The Philosophical Regimen.
contrary sweet carriage, sweet action and behaviour ? And
what is sweet action ? a sweet soul ? — See then which of these
stinks, which of the sweetnesses, are truest. If the honest man's
be sweetness, then count these (as they are) stinkards and no
better.
Corruption, corrupt. — But how ? Does his breath smell ill ?
Is not his skin whole, smooth, slick, thriving ? — But he is a
villain ; rotten within, hollow, unsound, tainted. — How ? with
what ? Is he not heart-whole ? Does his pulse beat ill ? Is not
his blood well coloured, well substanced, fair, and pure ? — Where,
then, is this poison ? and why is not his heart as good as any
heart ? Is there such a thing then as a sound heart in that
other sense — wholesome, true, staunch, not to be made lewd, not
running riot, not taken off of its game ? Has an honest heart
such a game ? is there any such pursuit or chase ? is there any
thing in this huntsmanship ? is there this discipline, this regimen,
cure, faculty, art ? Let us hear, then, what it is, on what it
stands, and how brought about. Let us hear the method and
rules. How shall I be trusty, faithful, staunch ? how sound,
entire, and incorrupt ? What are the things that corrupt, and
what those to be opposed to them ? — And what name to give to
this science, this study ?
Come on ; let us hear how it is said : Ridiculous ! What ?
— Everything, or nothing ? Ridiculous, indeed. — But something,
therefore : something certain, something in nature so : and which,
being wrongly applied, is itself ridiculous.
Childish, womanish, bestial, brutal. — Words ! words ! or are
they anything more ? But how then not a child ? How least
like woman ? How far from beast ? how removed and at a
distance from anything of this kind ? how properly a man ?
^KOTTCl OVV, TIVODV KCX^pt^fll KCLTO. \6yOV 6t]plWV TrpofioLTWV
[Consider, then, from what you are distinguished by reason —
from wild beasts — from cattle. — Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. x., § 2].
A man, and not a woman ; effeminate, soft, delicate, supine ;
impotent in pleasure, in anger, talk ; pusillanimous, light,
changeable, &c. ; but the contrary to this in each particular. —
A man, and not a beast : not gluttonous as a hog, not lecherous
as a goat, not savage as a lion, but sociable as the creatures that
live in society and have a public. — A man, and not a child : not
Natural Concepts. 217
taken with trifles, not admiring shows, not playing, crying,
taking on, angry and pleased again, froward, pettish, in humour,
out of humour, wanton and cross, stomach, the belly and play-
thin^, manna, nurse. The contraries : Manhood, manliness,
ir>'
humanity — manly, humane, masculine.
Cowardly. — But how ? Why not all fear alike reasonable
and commendable ? If not, what fear is blamable ? And why ?
— The degree ? how far and no further ? For what is fearful is
and ought to be feared (else what is rashness, madness ?) Learn,
therefore, what is and what is not fearful, and how a man may
attain intrepidity and be justly said to be no more fearful.
Revengeful. Revenged ? — Of what ? Of a stone or madman ?
Who is so mad ? — for a chance hurt, against thought or
intention ? Who is so unjust ? Therefore there is just and
unjust, or why anger ?
Base, Mean. — Why not ? — But others will hate me. Do
others then hate what is base and mean ; and dost thou not hate
thyself ?
Why are men proud ? — It is natural. Why poor and
proud. — It is natural. Ugly and proud ? Even ignorant and
proud ? — Natural still. Does he then who is thus destitute yet
proud think himself base and mean? — No; but the contrary.
Is pride then natural ; and is not the idea of base and mean (and
of what is contrary) natural ? Can one be without the other ?
What is pride, then ? — What but the wrong application of this
7r/)o%?T/a9 [preconception].
A brute, a dog — and what then ? Why is it thought so
offensive ? Why taken ill by those who would have no difference
to be in nature between just and unjust, right and wrong ? Are
we not all dogs, wolves ? — Homo homini lupus [man is a wolf
to his fellow-man]. — What difference then ? Wherein lies the
dog which every one so much detests ? — Flattery, fawning,
envying, biting, this is doggish ? How many dogs ?
Honest. — Are you honest ? — Why angry if but so much as
asked?
The beaut^ de I'ame and beaute" du cceur of the French
libertine-authors, of the very courtesans, ladies of intrigue. — Is
it so then ? Is there such a thing indeed ? — As how then ? A
Messalina ? an Agrippina the younger ? — No, but an Agrippina
218 The Philosophical Regimen.
the elder, a Livia and so to a Cornelia, a Portia, a Lucretia, an
Arria. Or amongst the courtesans themselves, a Thais of
Terence, the Bacchis of Hecyra; from the better sort of these
creatures to modest wife and matron; from the real Thais or
Phryne to an Aspatia, so to Hyparchia.
Tranquillity, serenity, retreat, peacefulness, silence, order,
beauty, majesty, and the rest that is found in nature at those
times when the temper leads that way, and seeks the romantic
places, the rocks and seashores, wood, caverns, &c. Thus also
in Marcus AureL, Med. iv., § 3. — See at what this aims. — They
aim indeed, but not rightly.
Happiness, satisfaction, content. Can there be any happi
ness without content ? Any beyond content ? Is there happiness
and not content ? or content and not happiness ? — But what
content ? Not without feeling, sense, perception : else we might
say a stone's content. Not without understanding, thought, and
reason : else we might say a beast's, a hog's content : not a
heart's or mind's content. There is required therefore a rational
content, and not merely a rational (as proceeding from certain
and true reason). Now where is this reasonable content ? Is it
a reasonable one and on sure ground that has its foundation on
circumstances that change every minute, that satisfy one minute
and not the next? That are every way unstable, inconstant,
capricious, never to be depended on, never what we can call our
own ?• — What is this content ? Is it the wealth of the Indies ?
Is it a fine wench ? a boy ? is it a seraglio ? is it in all those
things put together of which our poetess could say
" That were our state as we would choose it
'T would be destroyed for fear to lose it 1 "
Must every one then that is happy be a coward ? On the
contrary, whoever is a coward must and ever will be miserable.
How not be afraid, not shrink, nor tremble either at the
approach of death or retreat of fortune, when she is upon the
wing ? — Si celeres quatit pennas resigno quae dedit [If she
spreads her quick wings, I resign what she has given. — Hor.y
Od., III., xxix., line 54].
This is content indeed. This is a foundation. — Does she
stay ? Laudo vnanentem. Content ! — Does she flutter, sound
Natural Concepts, 219
with her wings, mount and away ? — Resigno quae dedit.
Content ! What should hinder the saying content ? Why not
content thus, to all things ? To all but that which thou can'st
make sure of ? — A long life ? Content ! — A short one ? Content I
— A name ? Content ! — No name ? Content ! — A fortune, —
estate ? Content ! — Poverty ? Content ! — Death ? Content !— la
there anything more ? If not, and that this can be truly said,
is it not well ? What would I more ? What would be more
than content ? What is happiness, felicity, summum bonum,
but merely this and this alone ? — See, therefore, how this i»
acquired; on what it depends; and what precepts, what rule
of life, what knowledge of affairs thou hast need of, in the midst
of this whole administration, never to be a malcontent, for such
a one must needs be (as he deserves) miserable.
NAMES. — 'Oyoyucrra Oe/mevos crairrw TOUTO., aya$o9,
a\Jj6>i$, e[j.<f>p(av, a-uju.<f>pwv, V7rep<j>pa)v, -rr/ooVexe yu^Tror
[When you have assumed these names — good, modest, true,
rational, brotherly, and magnanimous, take care that your
practice conform to your character. — Mar. Aurel., Med., Bk. X.,.
§8].
Integrity, entire — In limbs ? — No. Skin ? — No. But affec
tions ? — Affections towards what ? whom ? towards a kindred
and not a country ? a country, and not a world, universe ? — And
how is this affection broken ? How entire ? 'E/xTro&crflj/cn;,
Trev6ri(rei$ TapaxOrjcrfl [hindered, troubled, disturbed. — Epict.
Ench., I., § 3], and what follows ? Is this preserving it ? is this
integrity ? Therefore how not this ? — The way Twi/ OVTCDV TO.
fjiev ea-nv e(f> ^/ULIV, TO. Se OVK ecf wlv [of things some are in our
power, others not].
Heartiness, heart-whole — how a heart ? Content — and
what beyond ? what more ? — But not a hog's content. — A man's
content, then ; what and how ?
Tranquillity, serenity. — Where, within or without ? Sweet
retreat ! — Whither ? out of self into another world ? — No, but
out of this. — This what ? this air, sky, circuit of the world ? —
No, but out of the affairs of it. Let the affairs alone, then;
and thou art out of it. Or, say better : what hinders but thou
shouldst act in necessary affairs, and yet allow them to go a»
they will when thou hast done what belongs to thee ? Is not
220 The Philosophical Regimen.
this letting them alone ? is not this the same retreat ? What
else is tranquillity, serenity, peace ? and where is this truly
and only to be had ? — " I affirm that tranquillity is nothing else
than the good ordering of the mind." — Mar. Aur., Med., IV., § 3.
On the other side (of vices corrupt, see in II/DoX^et?),
Dissolute — dissolution, of what ? — Some tie, bond, viz., modesty
(pudor), respect, reverence of a fellow species, of relations ;
the rules, laws, orders necessary for the preservation of these
relations and of this species — and how far these laws ? If any
at all, what and which ? How far do they extend ? If any
relaxation, where stop ? if any restraint, where stop ? And
whither will this restraint carry us ? — 'Avexov Kal (nre\ov [bear,
and forbear]. Nothing less. When anything less, tone relaxed ;
nerves, sinews, tendons, fibres strained, burst, forced, broken.
Even when attention, the lipocroxn strict attention is but
suspended, what else is it ? What but dissolution ? — See the
effects too — all dissolution. — Instrument down, unstrung. —
Dissolution of liquors ; of the blood. — Dissolve in effeminacy. —
Diffluere, luxu, voluptatibus, otio.
Every loss of attention, every relaxation, every time of
the ILdOrj [passion] of any kind, false joy, indulgence,
humour, spring of mirth, fancy, ebullition, wit, story, jest,
•777 V^X# (rvve\K€a-6ai n cK^opwarQai [The soul either depressed or
elated.— Mar. Aurel., Med., Bk. VIII., § 51], leaping of the
heart, sympathising fellow-feeling in a certain way, the wrong
a-Topyrj [affection] : all this dissolution.
OPINION AND PRECEPTS.
a? Kal Aoy/xara.)
OPINION.— "0-n TrdvTa vTr6\rj\!si$ [Remember that all things
are opinion. — Mar. AureL, Ned., Bk. XII., § 22]. — 'E0' wlv /xei/
vTr6\rj\lsi$ OP/UL^, &c. [In our power are opinion, impulse, desire,
aversion. — Epict. Ench. I., § 1.]
Kcu cbrXw? oure Oayaro?, ot/re <j>vyr], ot/re TTOJ^O?, o</re aXXo T*
TWJ/ TOIOUTWV OLLTLOV CCTTL TOV TTpaTTClV Tt, q JUHJ TTpCLTTeiV rj/JLOL^,
dXX' vTTo\ri\ls€L<s KOI Soy/u-ara. [In a word, neither death, nor exile,
nor pain, nor anything of this kind is the real cause of our doing
or not doing any action; but our inward opinion and beliefs.
—Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xi, § 33].
How long since is it that thou didst see the necessity of going
deep into this ? How long since that thou bidst " Say not in
such a disposition; but such or such a fancy, such or such an
opinion, and use thyself to this. — To satisfy thyself about
opinion, see what those seasons of the mind are, which thou art
used to express by the name of feelings, dispositions, moods, in
which virtue, Deity, and such objects are faint and weak. What
mood, what temper can be the occasion of this ? What is this
but opinion and a certain secret disturbance in the opining part,
moved by dispositions. Places, objects, images joined before to
like opinions, &c., now bringing back those false ones with whom
they have held so ancient, strong, and almost natural alliance."
Therefore remember Tr^are v/u.a)v ra? u-TroX^e*? [Fix your
opinions. — Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. xvi., § 13].
See the thing ! — a sword, a pistol, not terrible ; but a
precipice ! — Drowning itself, the ocean waves not terrible ; but
drowning in the cabin ! — Thus with thyself. But with a silly
woman, a sword terrible ; yet a precipice not. She chooses this
death : also the effeminate lover, the melancholy and naturally
timorous tender man, the barbarian Indian. Xenophon's account
of a whole people, and particularly of a youth. To how many
221
222 The Philosophical Regimen.
is this easy, and to a demonstration is it not the easiest death
that can be ? But it likes thee not, it seems. Excellent fancy !
Incomparable opinion ! 'Twere pity but thou shouldst have thy
will and be indulged. Where go the women and timorous
people in a storm, or when the ship is near sinking ? What say
they ? " I'll go into the cabin and there die." And what of
thee ? " No, but I can't bear the cabin." — Coward ! Why not
the cabin ? — " I cannot bear to have the water come into me there
and choke me. I'll to the deck and open sea." — And what is the
sea to thee, whether in the cabin or out of the cabin ? What
difference ? What is the business ? A pail of water or less ; a
gallon or two perhaps. This is all my share. For I shall neither
drink a cabin-ful nor the sea-ful. — Will any one tell me this is
not fancy ? Shall fancy tell me so ? No, reason and truth
show me otherwise. Then of torture, the scaffold, gibbet,
executioner, and all that din and pomp about a matter which
comes not near the colic or the stone. Even that very pomp a
help rather (as animating, exciting by other objects and keeping
up the bent of the mind), when once the first fancy and opinion
is cured. For what a help is it to those hardy villains (being
bred to out-brave it) whom it ought rather to confound, as
exposing their guilt and shame before men ? — But how where
there is no guilt; but then at that time, and on that very
occasion most of all deserving ? Can this be frightful ?
A scaffold ! — right. What is a scaffold ? — a place built for
great sights, and to show things to a crowd — a coronation — as
king and queen ; a mountebank, a festival. — And why not this
as well, a festival in honour of the Great Master, in testimony
of His truth, a witness to Him, to His laws, to His privilege
given to man ? Can there be a nobler stage erected ? Can
there be a worthier, greater spectacle shown to men ?
PRECEPTS (Aoy/uara). — n/oo? ra? TWV TT pay JULCITCOV -r^ai/oV^ra?
ra? Tr/ooA^a? evapyelg eay^y/AeVa? KOI irpoxctpovs e'x«j> Set [Against
persuasive appearances we ought to have clear beliefs, purified
and ready for use. — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xxvii., § 6].
In this place the II/ooA^et? [preconceptions] stand as
Aoy^ara [precepts] : above (330-1) as flew/o^ara [principles].
Here, therefore, short, concise, pointed, keen; demonstration,
conviction not being the case here, but action. Time of action,
Opinion and Precepts. 223
und these fitted for that time. ^^Itnrep ol laTpoi ael TO. opyava
KOL (TiSripia e'xovcrt . . . ovrco TO. Soy^ara <rv eroijuLa e'xe [As
physicians have always their instruments and knives ready, so
do thou have precepts ready. — Mar. Aurel., Med. iii., 13], viz.,
for conversation — first, countenance ; second, gesture ; thirdly,
voice; add to this fourthly, matter. When all these maxims
are away, how reduced, retrenched, epitomised, gall and venom,
vapour, bubble, froth, vomit, chyle, crudity, phlegm. — And be
ready with the right instruments to reduce presently the
excursory matters to their proper heads and principles. Bring it
to a head, as the surgeon says, but in a quicker way by
precipitation, more like chemistry than surgery. In what
appearance, in what colour did it break out ? — Generosity,
magnanimity, magnificent talk for virtue and the right ? Away !
gall, venom. But simplicity, openness ? Away ! froth, bubble ? —
Doctrine, instruction ? Away ! vomit, phlegm. This is that
reducing; and as the work above is styled inversion, so may
this be, in term of art, reduction.
Remember therefore this plan and groundwork for Acy/wara.
In weariness, lassitude, torpor, and the dissatisfied, dejected
state of mind, this — " How redeem myself ? whither fly ? — Out
of nature ? how possible ? if not, how (otherwise) life tolerable ?
death tolerable ? and if neither what a hard case ! "
Again, some weariness, M^ ariicxaiveiv (&c.), el^rj KaTCLTrvKvovTai
croi TO CLTTO Soy/mo-Tcw opOwv eVacrra Trpdarareiv [Be not disgusted if
thou dost not succeed in doing everything according to right
precepts. — Mar. Aur., Med. v., 9]. Remember that (of old)1 " The
husbandman — what toil and pain ! what nights and days ! how
cheerfully ! and for what ? what hope ? — And wilt not thou as
much for thine ? But (good heaven !) what fruit ! what hope !
how great ! how excellent ! how happy! — But as in a ground that
is cultivated, the first thing kill the weed that chokes, over-runs;
then till, then manure, then expect. But all this not without
sweat, weariness, pangs, groans."
1 From old folio papers remaining since last retreat in 1698.
MAXIMS.
(No'/xof.)
A. SILENCE. — " Let only what is necessary be said,"
Ta avayKala [the necessaries] and no more, for if more, still
more and more an itching raised. New fancies, starting,
bubbling — froth, vapour, scum, wit, story — a laugh raised,
yeXcDTOTTOio? [ridiculous], one foolery drawing on another : one
levity making way for another : the mind apter : matter readier :
guests, companions more prepared and excited ; expecting and in
a manner claiming. For having shown this excellent qualification,
why not proceed ? If a taste given, why not a whole entertain
ment out ? Where stop ? or when ? —
Character (viz., inward), the Hpoa-ox>] [attention] when
again to be resumed ? — How as to outward character and the
remission here ? Is it not harder to resume ? harder now than
before ? and so for every time that this happens. — Yet still
venturing out, is it not harder to resume ? harder now than
before ? and so for every time that this happens. — Yet still
venturing out, and the poor mind rw cnravr^a-avTi [in' the power
of any one you happen to meet. — Epict. Ench.y c. xxviii.]. Is
not this spraining the foot with a witness ? (Ench., c. xxxviii.)
And what must come of this if often repeated : since already
so often ?
The itch (as thy friend once called it) from sore lungs,
something provoking within. — The scab of wit— foolish talk
(<p\vapia), the French flux de bouche, mouth-flux, upper loose
ness, want of retention.
Cure this in the first place, and above all stop this saliva,
dysentery, rheum, and in this sense ra e\Kvj irpwrov OepcnreveTe,
TO. pev/ULUTa €Tri<TTYi<Ta.T€, ype/JLtfaraTe 777 Siavola, &C. — KOI yvaxrecrSe
otav layyv o Xo'yo? e^et [" Do you first get your ulcers healed,
your fluxes stopped. Quiet your mind, and then you will know
what force there is in reasoning." — Epict Disc., Bk. II., c. xxi.,,
§ 22.] 224
Maxims,
Trepl Oecopij/aaTo^ [If there be any discussion among
the uninstructed about principles generally be silent. — Epict
Ench., xlvi.]. Silence about the Oecop^/mara and all belonging. —
If then ; and unknown ? a madness, a mere blasphemy. — And
would not this indeed be madness and blasphemy thus to
reserve, and silence be, above all other, and not to expose,
reveal, betray. — To expose the mysteries of cures. — Epict.
Disc., Bk. III., c. xxi., § 13. — Detestable prostitution ! Remember
avrt ^i/x/ooAoy/a? n<ruyj-av °"av $ei [in place of idle talk what
composure of mind there ought to be. — Epict. Disc., IV., c.
iii., § 2]. Rem ember ya-vxiav [silence].
B. LAUGHTER. — " Let not your laughter be excessive."
Consider the thing itself; in the bottom, what? 'E7ax«*/oe/ca/a'a
[malevolence]. Nothing else. — Gall , venom ; but of a different
kind, and more hidden. That anger; this contempt. That
reproof ; this reproach. See which is best borne with, which is
easiest forgiven ; and by this judge how sociable a thing, how
humane ; notwithstanding what they say of it belonging only to
man.
See it in excess, see it when given way to and soundly
followed. The characters it forms, the tempers, humours, morals
of such as these.
How in politeness ? — The well-bred people, those of a finer
make, better taste, and raised above the vulgar; and the mere
vulgar — porters, carmen, clowns ; and to which of these most
belongs the hearty laugh ? — How seldom this with any of the
former ? What a sense of the real nature of the thing ? What
but a plain perception of the decorum ? How perfectly
abhorrent (in every kind) to the TO KOL\OV ? And when others
leave it on this account, wilt thou have to do with it ? Where
is there one of those <[>i\oKaXoi [lovers of the beautiful] that will
endure it ? And wilt thou endure it ?
Savageness, barbarity, humanity, brutality, tyranny. —
Caligula, whose whole character was of this sort : a play,
sport, a mockery of mankind ; a playing with their passions,
concerns, hopes, fears; their fortunes, possessions, serious busi
nesses, and solemnities of life ; a scramble, the joy of the gainers,
and sorry faces of the losers; baulks, snubs, ill come-offs,
strippings, whippings, executions, and all this with humour,
B
226 The Philosophical Regimen.
raillery, wit, a comedy. So Domitian and his dark rooms.
Phalaris' bull and other sport of the same nature. For what is
sport ? — Wry faces, shrugs, with a little pain for those that are
little used; with more pain for those that are more used, and
that have improved their pleasure by custom and frequent
repetition of such spectacles and recreation.
Go to a prison and see the things there. Who merrier (as
they say) than those jail-birds ? See Newgate and the sort of
mirth there. That which is described so naturally by the
Spanish Petronius, the character of the galley - slaves and
common rogues. The humour of the soldiery when most of all
cruel and in the very actions of cruelty, sack of the town,
plunder, rapine, violence, death, and torments. Who merrier ?
Where is drollery, buffoonery, jest more perfect or more thorough?
Where is the laugh heartier, sounder ? Who have more of it ?
deeper of it ? Who have it in more perfection, more bona-fide,
.and (as they say) from the very heart ?
Poor, mad people and naturals, how treated ? The laugh in
this case, what ? and of what kind ? — the diversion of seeing
Bedlam. The usual entertainment of princes and such as those :
the court fool, the dwarf, man-monkey, or any such mockery of
human kind. — How humane ! — Yet what is better received
than these jests ? What a better laugh ! — See the malignity
or this, and by this judge of all other laugh.
How happy would it be, therefore, to exchange this vulgar,
sordid, profuse, horrid laughter for that more reserved, gentle
kind, which hardly is to be called laughter, or which at least is
of another species ? How happy to exchange this mischievous,
insulting, petulant species for that benign, courteous, and kind ?
this rustic, barbarous, immane, for that civil, polite, humane ?
the noisy, boisterous, turbulent, loud, for the still, peaceful,
serene, mild ? —
Think of a Xenophon, his own character, and that which he
has made of his "false king," or the real one of his friend,
Aegislaus, or any such other genius raised ever so little above the
vulgar.
Whether better to laugh with a Xenophon and the Greek
muses, or with a Michael de Cervantes and the modern wits ?
Whether with a Socrates and the wits of that order, the
Maxims. 227
Socratics, and those that followed the Socratic way, down to the
Roman Menander, or with him whom the moderns most resemble,
and Aristophanes, and such as those?
Remember Socrates and laugh with Apollodorus in the
prison. — Remember that of Demonax, which even Lucian sees,
and Diogenes, which no one now sees, or understands, with the
rest of that sweet kind. And remember what a happiness,
improvement, enjoyment, to reserve all that is humorous and
pleasant in the temper for such geniuses as those, and for that
divine facetiousness l (if so I may call it) of the divine man's.
Therefore, remember this reserve, this saving, sparing,
laying up, treasuring, enriching; and as by another sort of
frugality an estate is gained, an interest, reputation, or good
name; so do thou accordingly, and by this example remember
to be vir frugi [an upright man].
That not only the thing itself should be of the reserved
kind (/mriSe avei/m. ej/to?) [not carelessly] but in the management of
it, reserved, husbanded, and kept only for places, persons, and
things such as these. And think but how vastly this must
promote strength ! How much vigour, what force, blood, spirits,
virtue is wretchedly spent another way ! How much lavished
every day and miserably bestowed ! How much spilt and
thrown away ! — Nor this all, for this is not only lost, but turns
to poison. How laugh when death ? When news ? When
storm2 ? (swallow the man) ! when earthquake ? (bury the whole
town) ! These are of the right kind. But expect not to laugh
both here and there. — 'E/xoi/ S' eyeXao-o-e <t>i\ov Krjp [And in my
heart I laughed.— Corner, Od., IX., 413].
Here therefore the reverse of Maxim B, and this experienced
first day of January 16th, 1704. This is that soliloquy. — Thus
laugh alone and even at serious times, or rather then most
of all. For what trust to that other season ? Choose it, there
fore, at contrary times, and excite to it rather than be carried to
it by temper. oXeO/oo? yap 6 roVo? [for the place is death], even
with self : a precipice, brink, declivity.
And remember long ago what was observed of that wrong
1 Epict., Disc., Bk. II., c. v., § 27, and vii., § 6.
2 Ibid., Bk. II., c. xvi., §§ 22, 23.
228 The Philosophical Regimen.
and involuntary kind (p. 82). Rule in the use of this. —
Avoid these two, viz., drollery, obscenity — for, pursuing the
sense of the words closely, it is evident that to these two heads
are all the ill sort reducible. Hence the reasonableness of that
strict carriage and excess of modesty in these cases, which was
what once thou couldst not understand, but thought amiss,
choosing frankness rather than the open way; by the pattern
of the satirists and their genius. But since that time thou hast
known better, for see how thou hast been taught not by precept
only, but by sad example and experience. Therefore now and at
this time of day remember a reverse of character. Enter again
into true nature (for such is that nice and even bashful modesty),
and embrace also that latter part of this 'E-rncr^aAe? Se KOI TO etV
ai<rxpo\oyiav TrpoeXOeiv — and eTriTrXv^ov TO> irpoeXOovTi [" It
is a dangerous habit also to approach obscene talk — rebuke
the one who begins it if possible ; but if not an opportunity to
do so, express your dissatisfaction at least by silence." — Epict.
Ench., c. xxxiii., § 16.] Grief for another's good, joy for another's
ill. — See how related ; whether one does not imply the other.
See what thou wrotest thyself the other day in thy short
but very advantageous retirement at North - Han, viz., the
Pathologia at the end. — Jocositas vero, sive risus magnus,
effusus, non cohibilis, laetitia est de turpi externo et alierno,
tanquam bono nobis. Gaudium enim sive laetitia nisi de
bono pulchrove vero vel opinato non est. Et quia risus talis
non appetitio est, non aversatio, non dolor, sed gaudium sive
laetitia, sequitur necessario ut objectum ejus (viz., ridiculum
illud et malum alienum) quasi bonum vel pulchrum nostrum
spectetur. Ex invidentia ergo et odio prqflciscitur risus talis,
et est malitiae seu malignitatis species.
The Hebrew philosopher, Eccles. xxi., v. 20 — "A fool lifteth
up his voice with laughter, but a wise man doth scarce smile a
little."
See what was written so long since on this same subject upon
joy. The same here as to mirth, as to laughter. The test news,
how if ill news in the midst 1 how surprised ! how sillily look
(as they say) ! how mute ! Wouldst thou not have wished thyself
to have been otherwise taken ? Go not therefore out of
the true measure and tone of character, and then thou
Maxims. 229
canst never be wrong taken, or at unawares. This is security,
peace, constancy, magnanimity ; the other cowardice, falsehood,
treachery.
C. ENTERTAINMENTS. — " Fix your attention." "Ej/reTao-Oto
<roi ri TTpoa-ox*] [Stretch (apply) your attention. — Epict., Ench.,
XXVIII., § 6], which answers to ^vvjrapeKTeiveiv rrjv vovjaiv roF?
Xeyo/xeVof? [Direct your attention to what is said. — Mar. AureL,
Med. VII., § 30], and ra ^ye/xoVm avrwv Sidj3\e7re [Examine
men's ruling principles. — Ibid., IV., § 3].
Pierce into the bottom -work of their minds ; the dark
chambers and corners of their heart ; their principles of
judgment; their decisive determining thoughts and rules of
action ; their spring, source, origin of affection, hatreds, loves,
appetitions, aversations ; their genuine fancies, imaginations,
opinions, Aoy/^ara, decrees, judgments ; not those they set out
to show before others. Penetrate, to dive and search into
their ways, minds, dispositions, humours, feelings : a work just
contrary to that other diving, sifting, fishing (as it is called),
and mysterious searching into their affairs and circumstances.
Let there be no divining, guessing (if possible) their
thoughts, and studying to prevent by humouring, pleasing,
hitting their fancies, endeavouring thereby to make one's self
acceptable and mighty amongst them, and capable of managing
them thus in an outward way. — Have nothing of this ; nothing
to do with secrets, their family or state secrets, their secret
tales, projects, interests, amours, or any other secrecies ; but
disclose by their good leave (or whether they gave leave or
no) the secret and hidden mystery of all their life and action.
Look into their breasts laid open, reveal the mystery of their
mysteries, and behold how poor, how low, how shallow. See
whence these other mysteries not worth the looking into, the
bottom of all this, the motive, end, where the fines bonorum et
malorum, the ova-ia ayaOov — KOI \onrov 7r/iocrex&> TO?S avOpcoTrois,
Tiva 0acr/, TTW? KIVOVVTCLI [And for the rest I am attentive
to other men ; what they say, and how they are moved. —
Epict Disc., Bk. IV., c. iv, § 7.]
Be these thy entertainments and discourses with thyself
(though in company), these thy tables, when needs there must
be tables and discourse of that kind ; this thy table-talk
230 The Philosophical Regimen.
within, with self, and let alone that other, no matter how it
succeeds, or what it is. — Lead it, look after it who will : be
it kept up or let it fall : thou canst not err in having no part
in it, for there is no necessity thou shouldst have any. But
if thou hast any part in the discourse of that kind, and this
discourse and reason go not along with it and strictly accom
pany it, thou shalt be sure to err and to repent.
D. EXERCISE ("A.&Ktja-is). — Kav aar/ci/cra/ Tore TT/OO? TTOVOV $eA#?,
-rj TO?? e£a> — Si\fsu)v TTOTC <r<j>oSpu)$ e7r/<T7racrcu, &/C., KOI
[If ever you wish to exercise yourself in labour and
endurance do it for yourself and not for others — if you are
very thirsty take a draught of cold water and spit it out,
and tell no man. — Epict. Ench., c. xlvii.].
To Tvju.vaa'iov — OTI Kpeiararov CCTTL Trdcrrjs TrcpiTroptyvpov
[Diogenes says that to be naked is better than a purple robe. —
Epict. Disc., Bk. I, c. xxiv., § 7]. Thus the old poet— "the
flinty couch of war," and " my thrice-driven bed of down."
And in this thy field, why not the same ? Is the thing itself
less generous, less great, less triumphant ? If there be any real
triumph : if there be anything magnanimous, anything heroic,
any virtue, any praise.
Away with these other fields, laurels, trophies : the
Alexanders, the Caesars, the modern fighters of Badens, the
Eugens. What are these ? and what, TO. ^ye/xow/ca avrav ? [their
ruling principles. — Mar. Aurel., Med., Bk. VIII., § 3].
Think of thy own work ; thy own conquests : e/c/3aXe avrl
IipOKpov<TTov Kcii 2/c//Qft)j/o? Ai/TH/i/, 0o'/3oy, €7riOv/j.iav [Instead of
Procrustes and Suron, grief, expel fear, desire. — Epict. Disc.,
Bk. II., c. xvi., § 45].
Awake ! Up ! Rise ! Or art thou weary of this work ?
Is it ever to cease 1 is it ever to relax ? Why shrink then ? why
draw back ? what effeminacy is this !
ATTENTION AND RELAXATION.
Let experience at least teach thee what it is to wander
abroad, and to suspend for ever so short a time the superin-
tendency and care of self. 'Eai/ TTOTG croi yevrjTai e^co arTpa^fjvat,
. . 'la-Oi on aTTwAecra? -rrjv evcrrafriv [If it should ever happen to
you to be turned to externals, you must know that you have lost
your purpose in life. — Epict. Ench., c. xxiii.]. Whether it be to
please or gratify others; to gain or retain others; to reform
or to restrain others: or whether it be through any of these
thoughts eav a/ueAj/cro) TCOV C/ULGOV, . ov\ e£a) &aT/oox«? [If I neglect
my affairs I shall not have the means of living. — Ench., c. xii.] ;
or that other, 'aAA' q Trar/o/?, oarov eir cjmoF, (prjariv, ' a/3oriOriTro$
ecrrat [" but my country, you say, as far as it depends on me,
will be without my help." — Ibid., c. xxiv., § 4].
See the effect of this, and how the thing proceeds. In the
first place attention (that fixed attention towards the scope and
end) immediately is lost. The good habits which were incumbent
on the mind, and which as faithful guards watched over it, are
taken off. The good * affections, f inclinations, and declamations,
are by disuse relaxed and their vigour transferred to a contrary
kind. The sentiments, thoughts, motions, feelings, meditations,
the right modification of appearances, and the use and manage
ment of objects : all these and whatever else is proper to a state
of health, are by this suspension lost, or become heavy, languid,
dull, and spiritless. Solitude is a burden, and the power of self-
entertainment is come to nothing; hence a greater propensity
than before to amusements and wrong exercise. Then the next
engagement is stronger and more intense than the first ; and so
onward, till all be lost and what was a relaxation only, becomes
at length a total dissolution.
What folly, rashness, and madness is it, to attend to other
things in such a manner as to lose attention to that which is
principal; and for the sake of outward economy, to quit that
f 6
231
232 The Philosophical Regimen.
which is inward ? How wrong and injudicious it is to be drawn
from this, on account of that which we call doing good ?
How wretched and mean, to faint in this work and to seek for
relaxation? This is a plain betraying of the whole and is the
part of an apostate and deserter.
But reason is to be defended, the right, the truth, rd Trpoaiperd
OVK e</>' *iiu.v, the concern of others, the fault theirs, the mischief
theirs. My own concern is for truth, reason, and right within
myself; and how maintain this ? Not whilst the aim or ope£i?
[desire] is towards another truth and the establishment of reason
abroad, not whilst reformations are dreamt of, new people and a
new world. Hence ensues impatience, heat, eagerness, debate.
Shall I let this pass ? shall I see truth betrayed ? — What truth ?
Consider, where is now simplicity ? where is patience, meekness,
benignity, tranquillity ? where is that right affection of com
placency towards men and resignation to Deity ? This is truth.
This is the great, the only, concern ; and when this is yielded or
given up, then it is that truth is betrayed.
Remember how often thou hast proved, and by what
repeated experience, that the beginning of all miscarriage, the
chief and in a manner only cause of failure, is that which
happens in conversation and company, contrary to the precept
and to what is so positively enjoined in the rules belonging to
this place. For, thus it is. The mind, which at first seemed to
be on its guard, strong, resolute, and able to hold out, is through
attention given to those other subjects, at last tempted by some
seeming fair occasion to make a small step outwards, supposing
it to be only for once, on this particular occasion, and thinking
to retreat again safely within itself. — " If I say but this word
I shall set the matter right. If I allow myself but this small
complaisance, I shall keep myself well in his opinion. If I
indulge but in this one thing, it is enough. I shall be
thought passable and not altogether morose, and changed from
what I was. Eight. This is well, now I am applauded, now
I am saluted and congratulated, now I am felt." — Here is the
corruption : here the breaking in. But remember : whatsoever
causes joy and satisfaction when present, causes grief* and
* Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. 1., § 84.
Attention and Relaxation. 233
disturbance when absent; whatsoever is the subject of joy or
sorrow with respect to the present, must be the subject of
appetition and aversion with respect to the future. Hast thou,
then, forgotten these rules ? If not, consider what must necessarily
follow. The mind being elevated ever so little by this success, is
instantly drawn into a new desire, a new appetition. The * o/oe^i?
[desire] grows ; and a contrary e/otAicri? [aversion] and declining
is in that instant immediately produced or begotten. The ground
thus gained (as having now become a matter of consideration) is
to be kept: and this with no small earnestness and concern.
Nor can the matter rest here, but more must be added, more
must be grasped at, more procured to make this good, and to
secure and fortify what is acquired. Hence further excursions,
other sallies, other attempts : till at last, we come again into the
same field, fighting, as before, with the same arms and for the
same things as when we were in the depth of idiotism.
Thus we leave our harbour and put to sea again, so that in
a few moments we lose sight of land ; or if we turn our eyes
back to view anything in that region which we have quitted,
everything appears so faint and dim, everything of that sort is
contracted into so narrow a size, that it is scarce discernible or
knowable.
Endeavour now at this season and in the midst of this to
recall any of those principal rules, anything that relates to
human kind and the condition of life, anything of Deity, anything
belonging to the virtues. Apply that sovereign <5o'y/xa of what is
ours, what not. See how this is looked upon: mind how it affects,
and whether it be not merely as a dream or some antiquated
story. What to do in this miserable state ? how move or
turn ourselves ? Wilt thou never remember of what nature this
is and how this is brought about ? Art thou not henceforward
at the mercy of the winds and weather ? Art thou not
delivered up to another train and set of fancies ? And then
when retired again and with thyself alone, how dost thou find
matters ? what reception at the time ? how are the fancies and
imaginations disposed, and in what order, what course ? How do
* Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. iv., § 35, and Mar. Aurel. Med.,
Bk. VII., § 27.
234 The Philosophical Regimen.
they run, how lead, introduce, and follow one another ? What
method, use, management, correction, regulation ? Is it not all
hurry, chance, confusion, anarchy ? Do they not range high and
low, carry all before them and with them, elevate, transport,,
depress, deject ? Here hope, there doubt and consternation : and
here hope again. — " Was not that well managed ? was not that
turn dexterous ? No, but that other thin^ was unfortunate, that
lost me. What will they say or think ? how shall I get out of
that affair ? what apology ? what excuse ? " — Is it come to this
then at last ? are these the thoughts ? this what we aspire to
and affect ? the sum of all our wishes ? our highest ambition
and hope ?
Remember this : — How certain and inevitable these con
sequences are ; and that in this state, and whilst this habit and
constitution lasts, the only safety is in retirement from all this-
sort of converse ; and if at any time unhappily unwarily engaged
in it, to see that it continue * not long, that it do not grow
customary and begin to gain and be familiarised. For even
where a guard is kept, and the particular rules observed, yet by
a long-continued attention (though ever so reserved) towards
the matters of discourse, towards the common reasoning and
ideas, it must necessarily follow (in such a mind as thine) that
the other attention must of course be lost. And if complais
ance, imitation, and flattery be added ; if smiles, countenance,
and approbation be joined ; and an outward sort of harmony
be kept : things will be yet worse, and thou wilt soon find that
thou dost begin to harmonise within. At least all harmony of
another sort will be lost ; the other measures and numbers
broken and disordered. Touch any spring whatever, and mind
what sound ! Is not all dead ? is there any more use or virtue in
the instrument ? is not the art perished ? How recall this ? in what
way renew it ? where take it up again ? The work itself feels
heavy and tedious ; all within is become unapt, and the disposi
tion turned another way. See what a crowd of other ideas:
impertinent, idle, monstrous, imaginations, and wild fancies
rushing in, making havoc, uproar, confusion ; rejoicing as it were
at their new admittance, and revenging their former exclusion.
* cf. Mar. Aurel Med., Bk. VI., § 11.
Attention and Relaxation. 235
These are the hurricanes and tempests. Such is the ravage they
commit — et terras turbine perftant [and sweep the earth with a
whirlwind — Virgil, Aeneid, Bk. I., line 83]. When are we to
expect a calm again ? when return again to our harbour ? when
are those halcyon days to be restored ? is it not more likely to be
chaos and night ? whither does this tend ? what does it bode ?
Remember what Epictetus says " the pilot neglecting his duty
discovers how little is wanting to over-set the bark." *
All depends on a certain succession, series, or train of
fancies, and on that faculty or power which controls, manages,
and uses them. If this be once interrupted, it is chance that
governs. And thus it is a chance whether reason be ever
regained.
If there be no end, no measure, no rule, all is madness. If
there be, then, whatsoever is acted without it must be madness.
If I throw away my rule, if I lose my end, what power, what
faculty, can I reserve whereby to be sure of resuming this again
when I think fit. If this be impossible, then at any time when
I act thus and have consented to suspend attention, I do not
suspend, but in effect renounce it wholly, since it no longer
depends on me to renew what I have broken off. If so, then
this is not temporary and voluntary madness; but real and
absolute, since I myself know not certainly when it shall cease,
or whether it shall ever cease at all.
RELAXATION. — 'OJ/c aio-Odvu, OTL, eireiSav a<pfls Trjv yvu>/u.rjv, owe
eri CTTI arol COTTIV avaKaXecracrOai avTqv, OVK eirl TO €uar)(r]ju-ov, OVK
€7rt TO aiSfjju.ov, OVK €7rl TO KaTecrToXjULevov ', [" Do you not see that
when you let your mind loose it is no longer in your power to
recall it, either to propriety, or to modesty, or to moderation ? "
Epict., Disc., Bk. IV., c. xii., § 6].
Upocrexe ovv raf? (fiavTacriais, eTraypinrvei. ov yap junKpov TO
T*]pov]u.€vov, aXX' aaSoo? Kal TricrTi? /ecu eva-TaOeta [" Attend, there
fore, to the appearance of things to watch over them, for that
which you have to preserve is no small matter, but it is modesty
and fidelity and constancy." — Ibid., IV., c. iii., § 7.]
Is this right ? Is this really so ? Or had it best be again
a relaxation ? another trial ? — What has come of it ? How
* Epictetus, Discourses, Bk. IV., c. iii., § 5.
236 The Philosophical Regimen.
relaxation ? It is not relaxation here as in other things
(unbending, strengthening); not as the common misapplied
verse, Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo [Nor does Apollo
-always keep his bow bent].
In this place the bow is the worse, and returns worse to
its bent. Every moment an injury, a weakening, with danger,
too, of breaking if it stays long. Nor is this all; for in the
use of the other bow the objects (such as the mark, butt,
target, or whatever else) remain the same, being passive and
as fair for exercise when the bow is resumed as when it was
laid down. But here far otherwise. The objects, indeed, in
-a strict sense are as passive as those others, ra TT pay para
e£iw Ovrpw ecTTrjKev [Things stand passively out of doors. — Mar.
AureL, Med., Bk. IX., § 15].
But there are other bows that are bending all the while
that this is unbent. Counter-machines are raising ; the balistae
tormenta and all the engines of a certain kind, playing from
another side with new force and, as it were, from a higher
ground. But when on this side things stand fixed and bent,
the other fall of course, without battery or labour, and
the combat is little or nothing. No struggle, no force,
-all is easy, smooth, and manageable without difficulty; so
that one would wonder and say, " Where was this mighty
enemy ? what was this we feared so much ? " But in the
other way, how soon will those contrary voices be heard,
" Alas ! where are the helps ? where are now the rules ? and
what do these avail ? ri JULOL <r/x7ra/£«9 ; [why do you mock me]
and apKel CJULOI TO. e/xa KUKOL " [my own evils are enough for me.
—Epict. Disc., Bk. II, c. xix., § 18, 19].
Therefore, no flattery of this kind. Never un-bent, for
when unbent know what is then on the contrary, bent,
strenuous, vigorous. Deceive not thyself. There is no
relaxation, no remission, no unbending, no relieving, resting,
recreating, reposing. Deceitful names ! proper, indeed, as to
other works and labours, but which have no place as to the
work within. This will ever be going on, either in the
right or wrong way, ever advancing and pressing on, even
when most unseen. It is ever growing imperceptibly, ripening,
coming to a head either as good fruit or as the fungus ; for
Attention and Relaxation. 237
neither is the natural plant ever at a stand, nor is this plant.
The workman may lie down and rest, but never nature, till
at last once for all. The work of the heart and this other
work will keep pace. The x/0^0"'? 0ai/racna>i/ [use of appear
ances] will be, whilst the <mrroX»7 [contracting] and Siaa-ToXrf
[expanding] exist. As in one engine, so in the other : as with
the materials of one, so of the other. Blood good or bad,
appearances good or bad, motion, exercise regular or irregular,
in measure or out of measure; it must go on still. Some
thing must be doing, and strongly doing. Some pulse or
another, some energy or another, either with nature or against
nature, either a struggle or a free course, either convulsion, fever,
hurry, uproar, chaos : or natural motion, order, uniformity, and
design. — What is relaxation, then ? How relax ? how rest ?
Bid the heart rest, bid the heart relax, the lungs take a
remission. And shall I say a jot more reasonably to that other
part, take thy ease and be relaxed. " Mind, be contented. Let
the Visa alone, or leave them to themselves ; use none, or mind
not how thou usest them."
What is this to say but " Mind ! Be contented, and be no
mind. Mind ! be nothing or worse than nothing : a madman's
mind." Learn, therefore, to speak properly, and when thou
sayest to thyself " Relax, take thy ease," explain and say,
" Mind and governing part ! have done ; and let the ungoverned
take their turn. Let the fancies, ungovernable amongst them
selves, govern thee. Be thou their subject : not they thine. Let
them model thee : not thou them. Let the ground thou hast
gained on them be gained now again upon thee. As the work
was strong that way, so let it be now as strong this way." —
For so it must be ; this is the nature of the thing. This is
the only relaxation : change from one work to another ; from
this thou hast taken up with, as the only happiness and good,
to that which is directly contrary or the cause of all misery
and ill : from this vital healing, restoring operation, to that
deadly, fatal, and destructive one.
This is the relaxation. This the unbending : unbent, that
another bent may be the stronger ; relaxed, that something else
may become the more intense.
What palls, heaviness, lassitude from want, disuse, or but
238 The Philosophical Regimen.
remission of the Il/oocrox*? [attention] ? This is what Marcus
Aurelius speaks of, when the application to outward things and
attention that way are beyond a certain proportionable time and
degree, so that this necessarily follows.
But this not the worst yet. What impossibility of taking
it up again at pleasure ! Therefore, not lost only for the
present ; but lost absolutely, and depending on chance and
circumstances for recovery. What is this but madness ? — This
wretched state of disability, helplessness, how oft experienced
in voyages, journeys, intervals, in business and affairs, in breaking
off, lazy hours, garden, and how much worse still in any time of
pain, sickness, or the like ? — But if the contrary attention
must, therefore, so rigidly be kept, how deal with the world ?
how engage ? how company ? sociable acts and offices of a
civil life ? — So to what was said long since.
Remember that this is for one who is yet more than
TTpoKOTTTwv [progressing] ; not one who is less, and in such
circumstances, in such an age of mankind and with such sores
(p. 123). But being truly TT/OO/COTTTCOJ/ [improving], how possibly
powerful, eloquent, apt both here and there ? how watch that
enemy and this enemy ? how learn this fight and discipline and
that other with crafty men, a cabinet, senate, or a field ? how
these stratagems, this art, this multiplicity of invention, this
readiness of mind, turn of thought, with capacity, ingenuity,
and withal that other ?
IMPROVEMENT.
(TipOKOTTT].}
'Ael yap irpo<s o dv rj TcXeiorys Tivog KaQcnra^ ayrj Trps CLVTO
q TrpoKOTTtj crvveyyicr/uios CCTTI [For it is always true that, to what
ever point the perfecting of anything brings us, progress is an
approach towards it. — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. iv., § 4].
Remember, therefore, TTOU TYJV TrpoKOTrrjv ; [where seek
improvement ? &c. — OTTOV crov TO epyov ; [where lies your
work] — the a\Tijpes [weights], the acr/c^ara [exercises]. — Ibid.,
Bk. III., c. xxvi., § 39. To what end ? and for what all this ?
TL 6e\ei /me TTOICIV 6 6eos vvv, TL ov 6e\ei ', irpo oXiyou \povov yOeXev
(re <r\o\d^eiv, CTCIVTW \a\eiv, ypd<j>eiv [What is the will of God
I should do now ? what is not His will ? A little while ago it
was His will you should be at leisure, should talk with your
self, write about those things, read, hear, prepare yourself. —
Ibid., Bk. IV., c. iv., § 29]. And now what ? air avTcov Tre^Oevrcov
TO. epya [Show the acts which come from their digestion. —
Ibid., Ench., xlvi.]. Be it so then, and in very deed (epya),
nothing less, nothing more. Not a word, not a syllable besides :
but all within thyself, and to thyself alone, and this to be as
sacred with thee, never to be transgressed. But TT/OWTOI/ avro
tre^rov [First digest it], otherwise what but 7r/oayyaa aKaOaprov
/ecu a/5/oarroi/ ? [It will be a thing impure, and unfit for nourish
ment.— Ibid., Bk. Ill, c. xxi., § 2].
Ever remembering this, premising this, carrying this still
along with thee, at all times — hereafter, now, this moment, in
what thou art now doing, writing, exercising, studying ; that
it may be real studying, real exercise : not a cheat to abuse
thyself, not a show, not fine thoughts to improve in conversa
tion, not the wretched pomp and fucus of meditations, even
with self, much less for others, or with a thought towards
others, as seeking a discharge, evacuation, vent. — What a dis-
i Holland, 1703-04.
240 The Philosophical Regimen.
temper is this ? what a habit ? — Vile ! vile ! — This would be to
degenerate again, as a while ago. For then was this truly that
vile thing, that bile, crudity, vomit, phlegm. Take care thou
return no more to this vomit, this odious habit of mind. The
animal impurity is not half so vile.
Remember, then, and good reason : for what are these but
memorandums ? what is this but to be thy own remembrancer ?
— conviction past, demonstrations sound, rules expeditious ; the
application is all, all but to remember.
Memorandums — for what ? about what ? a small concern
perhaps, a trifle : for what else can it be ? Neither estate, nor
money matters, nor policy, nor history, nor learning, nor private
affairs, nor public. These are great things. In these are great
improvements. How many memorandums, how many common
place books about these. Who would think of any other
memorandums ? Would one dream of making any for life ?
Would one think that this were a business to improve in ?
What if this should be the thing of all others chosen out for
a pocket-book and memorandums ? - But so it is. Remember,
then, the memorandums as truly such, and for such use, as
memorandums only, to this purpose, this end.
Improvement. Advancement. — In what ? whither ? as
how ? Is there such a thing belonging to this place ? is there
study or art here. Bethink thyself. Is there then really such
a science ? And is the faculty, mystery, skill real ? If so, how
is it in other arts, where improvement is looked for, advance
ment aimed at ? How if a mathematician ? how if an accoun
tant ? how if a student in language, in rhetoric, aiming at
mastery in writing or in speaking ; a manner ; a style ? And
is this style ? are these words or letters merely. Is the improve
ment here ? the advancement hitherwards ? — Away ?
' 12? yap Te/cTOJ/o? v\tj Ta ^uXa, &C., — OVTCOS T*j$ irepl ftiov
rex*"/? v\t] 6 /3/o? avrov eicaa-Tov [For as the material of the
carpenter is wood — so the material of the art of living is each
man's own life. — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xv., § 2]. This is the
subject, and accordingly in this must be the improvement.
Begin, therefore, and work upon this subject — collect, digest,
methodise, abstract. How many codes, how many volumes,
lexicons, how much labour, and what compiling in the study
Improvement. 241
of other laws ? But in the law of life, how ? — Think, therefore,
at what time of day, think how late thou began it. How many
times left off; and how this last time, after such an advance,
how long renewing, with what pain, and how so followed;
supinely, heavily, neglectfully, wretchedly. Or is this easier
learnt and retained ? a matter of less trouble and thought ? of
less moment and concern ?
Begin then. Not (as before) to leave off; again, anon, beg
pardon for awhile, lie down and rest — from what, thou wretch ?
from food ? from rest itself ? Wouldst thou be restored in peace
to those innocent, calm, gentle passions that will be sure to give
thee rest, having given it thee so long ; as thou hast (it seems)
but too cheaply experienced ? Or is it that thou art already
perfect, or like to be so very soon, in this way ? Or if so, may
this art, like other arts or trades, be intermitted without
prejudice ? or be quitted wholly when something offers better
to live upon ? What better ? what to succeed ? and what to
do. What are other trades for ? and what this ? is it one and
the same ? and will this like others bear a relaxation, or but
a respite ? How is it with other arts when out of use ? and
what art shall bring this into use again when once out ?
Now, therefore, begin anew ; truly anew ; and not as before :
not yuerptW /ce/ai/^ueW [laying hold with small effort. — Epict..
Encli., c. i., § 4] ; not Kara \fsvxpav eTrtOvjmiav [with half-hearted
zeal. — Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. xv., § 7]. Know thy work, know
thy subject, matter, instruments, rules. Has the carpenter so
many ? is there so much closet- work, paper- work, so much
study, writing, figuring, practising there ; and not in the same
manner here ? Why writing ? why this flourishing, drawing,
figuring, over and over, the same still ? what for ? — What, but
for the art ? Not for show ; but for exercise, practice, improve
ment. — Writing and then burning. Drawing and rubbing out.
Chalk a wall, board, anything that comes to hand. — Mind, then.
See how it is with these practitioners. Or shall thy industry
come behind ? thy attention, application, fervour be less ? —
Apply, therefore, exercise, write, compose, cast the sums, chalk
out the design, lineaments, proportions ; scan, practise, prove.
Be always on some rule, some demonstration, some draught,
some scheme or another: and let other schemes alone. Be
s
242 The Philosophical Regimen.
sharpening, steeling, and pointing the counter visa, harden
ing, moulding, casting, and polishing the ^oy/mara and right
images * a-iSrjpia [knives], opyava [instruments], e\xeipiSia
[hand - books], ready ; the instruments, weapons, arms,
according to art and discipline ; redress, convert, invert,
provoke (for trial and practice), challenge, incite.— This by
such and such a rule ; from such a theorem, problem. This
by such a demonstration, axiom, postulation. This by the
golden rule : not that of arithmetic. This by the third, fourth,
fifth proposition : not of that Euclid, but of this other : the
teacher not of those lines and figures, but of these other lines,
the figures, proportions, and symmetry of life; without which
science all is confusion — appetitions, aversations frustrated :
moral relations broken: fancy wild — madness and distraction
all.
Go on, then: exercise and write, but remember aXXct TTCO?
[but how ? — Epict., Disc., Bk. III., c. xvii.], and a-eaurca KOI
M rof? e(fft> [for yourself and not for others. — Epict. Ench.,
c. xlvii.], else TO. \oyapia, /ecu TrXeov ovSe ev [trifling talk and
nothing more. — Ibid., Disc., Bk. II., c. xviii., § 26]. Let the
rules look as odd or ridiculous as they will; what is that to
thee, whose business is only to improve by these, not publish
them, profess, or teach them ? What are the rules in mathe
matics, grammar, or music to the vulgar and those unversed ?
What but sport ? And are these specious countenances any
other than vulgar, commonality people, mere people, and if
nearly looked into the very dregs too of the people, however
they may appear outwardly ? For how are they as to life ?
They who seek not any rule here, nor think there is any rule,
what are they better than vulgar ? Unless perhaps they are
the mightier and more to be admired, for sporting with these
things and despising what they understand not ; whilst others,
understanding themselves as little, are less persuaded of their
understanding.
What, therefore, can they make of this but sport ? what is
the divine man to his commentator of this age ? What is his
follower to both his ? Or if not constantly, yet by starts and
* Mar. Aurelius, Med. III., § 13.
Improvement. 243
fits when frightened by too home-truth, a plain word, or
a strong light ; yet these the most favourable of moderns.
To the rest sport or pity. For what else ? what better to be
expected ? Take care, however, not by thy own fault to give
occasion to this pity or this sport by exposing anything (as it
must be exposed, if discovered and directly owned), for this
indeed would be ridiculous, harsh, odious, pitiful.
Enough then. Remember Maxim A, § 6, KO.V xe/o
fawpr'i/uLCLTos, &c. [If any conversation arise among the unin-
structed persons about philosophical principles generally, be
silent. — Epict. Ench., c. xlvi., § 2], and what resembles this in
discourse about morals, philosophy, nowadays, when it so
happens. Here double the watch, strengthen the guard, be
alarmed, awake, doubly strict to the law, for double reason. —
Silence ! for thy own sake, for the thing's sake, and detest
this prostitution.
THE BEAUTIFUL.
(To KaXoV.)1
In things inanimate, animate, mixed.
Inanimate. — Beginning from those figures with which we
are delighted, to the proportions of architecture. The same
in sounds.
Animate. — From animals (and their several natures) to men,
and from single persons of men — their humours, dispositions,
tempers, characters, manners — to communities, societies, common
wealths.
Mixed. — As in a single person (a body and mind) : Love. —
And thus in communities ; a territory, land, culture, structures
and the ornaments of a city, mixed and making up (in
conjunction) that idea of a native country. Patria, and the
love of that sort.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
[" 'Tis sweet for native land to die."
Hor.t Ode III., 2, 13.]
In things inanimate, nature before the arts, and thus from
stones, diamonds, rock, minerals ; to vegetables, woods, aggregate
parts of the world, as sea, rivers, hills, vales. The globe,
celestial bodies and their order ; the great architecture of Nature
— Nature itself.
In things animate, from flocks, herds, to men and other
orders of intelligences, to the supreme intelligence — God.
Ta Tr\etcrra, wv y irXrjOvs Oavjmd^ei e*V yeviKcorara avdyerat,
&c., and ra €7rtyivo/uL€va TO?? <f>varei yivo/jLevot? ["Most of the
things which the multitude admire are referred to objects of the
most general kind, those which are held together by cohesion or
natural organisation, such as stones, wood, fig-trees, vines, olives."
— Mar. Aur. Med., Bk. VI., § 14]; and [" Even the things which
1 Naples, 1712.
244
The Beautiful. 245
follow after the things which are produced according to nature
contain something pleasing and attractive." — Ibid., Bk. III., § 21].
Decorum, Honestum, Pulchrum.
Le £eau, Le Grand, Le Majesteux, Le je ne sais quoi.
The goodly, fair, becoming, handsome, noble.
In person : in manners.
Carriage, inward, outward. — The coming into a room,
saluting, looking round, viewing, accosting — a generous part in
company, in a family, in the public, upon a journey with
strangers; civility, courtesy, affability, good breeding. What
gracefulness ! what winningness ! and this too even with the
vulgar, for to what do we with more emphasis apply the word
handsome ?
What search, what running after, what pursuit of this
appearance in all the subjects, except the true ! What study,
application, charm ! See with what spirits, ardour, and
vehemence the young man, forgetting his own species, seeks
this in those objects of his love : a horse, a hound ! What
doating on these beauties ! What admiration of the kind itself !
and of the particular ! What care, idolatry, consecration, when
the beast beloved is (as oft happens) set apart even from use,
and only kept to gaze on !
See in another youth not so forgetful of his species ; but
remembering it in a wrong way. A lover of the beautiful (<f>i\o-
/caXo?) of another kind. Xenophon's brave friend Episthenes.
A Chaerea : elegans formarum spectator. See as to music, how
See poetry, rhetoric, and the numbers of this sort ; what study
and politeness !
See as to other beauties where there is no possession, no
enjoyment or reward, but seeing and admiring only. Pictures
and designing, statues, architecture, the rapture and enthusiasm
of the lovers of this kind. The beauty of gardens, the inward
ornaments of houses, apartments, furniture, the ranging, order
disposition of these matters. What pains ! what study ! judg
ment ! science !
See yet in persons of a different kind who go not so far out
of themselves to seek this universally attractive species, but
having unhappily feigned to themselves a wrong self, bestow
246 The Philosophical Regimen.
their pains and culture on a body and its ornaments. And here,
what study of gracefulness and the decorum ! What care of
every motion, station, attitude ! Voice, gesture, looks, apparel !
See the effeminate, the affected, and their character distinct from
the sordidly sensual and mere voluptuous.
The tendency and aim of all this — rejoicings, sighings, faint
imperfect endeavours and impotent reaches after the TO /cot A or/.
Neaw'cnce, rtva $eAe*5 KO\OV Troietv ; yvwQi irpMTOv r/9 ef, KOI
OVTW KO(r/Ji€i creavTOV . . TO \oyiKov e'xet? e£aipeTOv, TOVTO KOCT/ULCI
KOI Ka\\u)7ri£e. [" Who is it, young man, whom you would
render beautiful ? Know first who you are, and then adorn
yourself accordingly. — The excellence lies in the rational part.
Adorn and beautify this."— Epict. Disc., Bk. III., c. i., § 24, 26.]
The transition easy. So, Epict. Disc., Bk. IV., c. xi., § 26,
TO KOXOV &T€l$, KOI €JJ TTOICI^. 't<r0l OVV, OTl €K€l <j>V€Tdl, OTTOV TOV
\6yov exeis, &c. [" You seek beauty, and you do well. Be assured,
then, that it springs from the rational part of you"]. O that this
were known ! O that thou thyself wouldst but know (truly
know) this !
The disposition and order of one of their finer sort of
gardens or villas : the kind of harmony to the eye from the
various shapes and colours agreeably mixed and ranged in lines
intercrossing without confusion and fortunately coincident ; a
parterre, cypresses, grove, wilderness, walks ; statues here and
there of virtue, fortitude, temperance, heroes, busts, philosophers'
heads, with architecture, mottoes and inscriptions of this kind.
Solemn representation of things deeply natural ; as grottos, urns,
obelisks in retired places and at certain distances and points
of sight, with all those symmetries that silently express such
order, peace, and sweetness.
* But what is there like to this in the minds of those who
walk here, and are the possessors of all this ? What peace ?
* The same of the other orders of the TO KO\OV : as in music,
painting, and what else of this kind is celebrated amongst the great
and creates the passion of virtuosos. But they themselves, whol
what "? — Such are their works ; such the composition ; such the pieces
they admire. But what is there like to this in the minds of these
musicians, painters, lovers of art, <fec. ?
The Beautiful. 247
What harmony ? — None, for if there were, there would be no
need of this exterior sort : no admiration : no search of order
here : no passion towards this beauty, or any beauty of this sort.
Therefore, remember ever the garden and groves within.
There build, there erect what statues, what virtues, what orna
ments or orders of architecture thou thinkest noblest. There
walk at leisure and in peace ; contemplate, regulate, dispose : and
for this, a bare field or common walk will serve full as well ; and?
to say truth, much better. — The worship of virtue (TO, opyta Trjg
tt/oerjfc. — Mar. AUT. Med., III., 7), and these inward walks and
avenues. Compositum jus fasque animo, sanctosque recessus
Mentis. [Duty to God and man well blended in the mind,
purity in the shrine of the heart. — Persius, Sat. II., 73, 74.]
6e\rj<rov /caXo? <f>avfjvai ra> 6eu> • eTriOvjULtjo-ov KaOapos /aera
KaOapov cravrov yevecrOai ["Be willing to appear beautiful in
the sight of God ; desire to be in purity with your own pure
seli\"—Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. 18, § 19].
These are the models, platforms, plans. This is that order,
and striking beauty, faintly shadowed out in those shapes and
rangings of things which strike the sense, and are the entertain
ment of the vulgar great.
Remember, withal, the gardens and ordering of another
kind, — grotesque, antiques, satyrs, goats, bacchanals. The
measures, proportions, music, dance, &c., that matches this.
Such is thy mind in a certain state, when certain thoughts are
not incumbent, certain views not present; in short, whenever
for the sake of these other beauties, beauty itself, the TO KO\OV,
TO Oelov is lost, out of sight, or faintly appearing. Such are
perpetually their minds (and such are the gardens that befit
them) who, seeming to have a different gusto, a fancy more
refined, make for themselves those other better proportioned
works, seats, gardens, and all those other charming, romantic
places ; but which suit them not one bit, there being nothing but
what is Gothic or grotesque within.
On one side, Gothic architecture, Dutch pictures, Italian
farce, Indian music ; on the other side, Attic numbers, Ionic and
Corinthian orders, and the Greek models in every kind — Phidias,
Appelles, Homer, and Hemskerk, Scarron, Tom D'Urfey.
Compare with the two orders of life — the rake and vicious,
248 The Philosophical Regimen.
the orderly and good. Or are there no measures, no numbers, or
proportion here ? nothing like this in life ?
Harmony, melody, symmetry. — The music of the lyre, the
pleasant matching of colours, the agreeable mixture and ranging
of parts, figures, lines, striking proportions, degrees, forms,
attitudes, beauty and grace. What is all this ? and whence ?
whither ? — With what does it suit and match ? What manners,
tempers, affections, and order of life best correspond, pair, and go
in tune with this ?
Take it in the finest descriptions of vice ; take a Petronius.
Try. Is this it ? does this do ? Is it the life of an Encolpius or
an Ascyltos ? Is it the ship of a Tryphon ? — See but how this
is in the most debauched authors that copy after nature, that
write naturally and ingeniously. Away with these other
romances, the women-authors, French gallantry and amours,
the modern plays and novels ; where there is neither nature nor
anything natural so much as lewdness : as those who are wittily
lewd see well enough. For, polite as they are (even in the way
of politeness), they secretly laugh at all this and stick to nature
— as much as there is or can be of nature in vice. But for the
very real, true nature, and what is according to that nature
truly graceful, proportionable, harmonious, and of the higher
virtuoso kind ; what can it be but virtue itself ?
Or can riot, corruption, and perfidiousness suit with this
idea ? And what is vice but corruption and perfidiousness ? —
Strange ! that there should be such skill, such art and nicety
in judging of these other beauties, and so little or none at all in
this which is the chief of beauty, the root and ground, too, of all
that other beauty ! For if thou wantest to be convinced of this,
consider but of those lines or features of a face together with the
whole person and outward carriage of one of those finer beauties
that are most taking with the polite sort of lovers, and that are
aptest to create a notable passion of that kind. See whether
this be not all of it, though in different ways, one and the same
expression or delineation of an ingenious mind, sweet temper,
good soul, generous passions, and affections — in short, of virtue
itself ; and whether those attitudes and motions which have such
an astonishing effect mean anything in the world less, or suit
less to anything, than to that work and those postures which
The Beautiful. 249
follow when another passion has got ground and leads where
it lists.
A palace and buildings — a theatre and ladies — fine shows-
wit — humour, and that which is taking of this kind — sweet,
pretty, delicate ! — or wonderful ! mighty ! prodigious ! — What
are these and such like extollings ? and of what ? — Why allow
thyself anything of this kind, or that so much as borders upon
this, unless thou wouldst betray thyself wholly ; forsake the
shadows of truth, excellence, real beauties, and go over, as a
deserter, to other colours ?
Do so then, 0X09 a7TOK\ivov cTrl ravavrla — KOI avcnrrjSwv
€TTiKpavyage rw opxwrjj, [" Incline with your whole force the
contrary way. Jump up in the theatre, too, and cry out
in praise of the dancer." — Epict. Disc., Book IV., c. ii., § 9].
A virtuoso to propose poetry, music, dance, picture, architecture,
garden, and so on ; extol, commend, be in raptures. — A female or
other beauty ? follow the passion, love, enjoy, make songs, extol
the fair one, the object of thy love. If this be beauty, if this
be thy virtuosoship, follow this, admire, commend.
Si, Mimnermus uti censet, sine amore jocisque,
Nil estjucundum vivas in amore jocisque.
["If, as Mimnermus tells you, life is flat,
AVith naught to love, devote yourself to that."
//or., Epist. I., vi., 65-6.]
But if thou refusest this, and wilt have to do with another
kind of beauty, what is all this gaying, looking, and wandering
abroad at this time of day ? What are thy praises, com
mendations, likings, but vile, awkward, fulsome things ? What
is the euge ! and belle ! — sweet ? pretty ? delicate ? In whose
mouth does this sound well ? What is sweet ? what pretty ?
And as how ? for whom ? for thee ? (is this thy business ?) for
such as thee ? such a lost, buried thing ? — Pedant ! philosopher !
moralist ! corrupter of pleasure ! intruder ! Thou animal of
another species ! thing out of season ! instrument out of tune !
— amphibious creature, ^Esop's bat, not bird, nor beast : and the
consequence ? What, but to be odious both ways, to others and
to thyself ? Unfortunate both ways, contemptible, miserable ?
avrjp [the dilatory man. — Epict Disc-, Bk. III., c.
250 The Philosophical Regimen.
xii., § 32], and o eTra/A^ore/Hcr/xo? e/cctre/ooV <TOI Trow/erei, ovre
7rpOKO\ls€lS KCLT a^lOLV OUT €K€IVO)V T€v£r] S)V TTpOTCpOV €TVyXaV€^
[and wavering will cause both results ; you will neither improve
nor have former enjoyment. — Ibid., Bk. IV., c. ii., § 5-6].
If the TO /caXoV, therefore, be here, where they lead, it
cannot be where those of another kind lead. If these are heroes,
those were puny wretches. But if there be a cause such as thou
hast imagined, if that be indeed a right cause, then is this but
imposture and deceit. Declare for one or other. The question.
Vote. — But I have voted. — And art thou still at, " oh, pretty ! —
sweet, pretty, delicate !" — Is not this voting and un- voting ? Why
give a hearing to these things ? why so much as an ear ? much
less a heart or tongue ? But if even an ear be allowed, if the
least uncautious attention or seeming assent be given (see !), the
heart straight will follow. Hast thou not tried this ? — Enough !
Fly-traps, pretty inventions ! — A vista in a garden, — a
machine in a play, — a lady in a new dress. Is it not charming,
rare, excellent ? Who would not willingly be thus trapanned ?
But what is the vista or perspective ? — A few sticks, a daubed
wall, a cheat. What is the machine ? — Cords and sweaty porters
pulling at them. And the lady ? — See : if thou hast eyes ; if not,
follow example, commend everything, swear 'tis all heavenly.
If that be beauty which is pointed to, which every finger
can show, and every eye see, why this inward search of things
invisible ? — Man ! use thy legs. Travel up and down, run the
balls, run the playhouses, the churches, parks ; run whole
countries and over seas, and all to see sights. — See ! See ! — this is
all. And in a child, what else ? Is it not the same passion ?
Novelty, surprise, colours, squares, rounds, triangles, the bustle of
children and the business about these things, their architecture,
their models, and buildings, and their pleasure of showing this to
others. — See ! See !
If this, then, be the thing, be thou also one of the children :
take the materials and the bricks, the mortar and the earth:
make terraces, great houses and little houses, grassplots, knots,
and all other delightful ingenious things : and cry, See ! But if
the thing be not here nor anywhere hereabouts, no nor anywhere
abroad or without, but within, within only ; then what is this
See! See! Hast thou not said this and heard it said enough?
The Beautiful. 251
Hast thou not shown enough and seen enough ? Enough, and
but too much ? — Enough then, and neither show any more, nor
mind when these things are shown, else there is an end of other
sights and of that beauty thou hast hopes of knowing.
^Q, 0/Ae Hdv TC KO.I aXXoi, ovoi TflSe Oeol, Soirjre /ULOI KaAw
yeve&Oai. [O dear Pan and all the gods grant to me that I be
beautiful.— Plato, Phaedrus, 279, 6.]
Look ! see ! — What ? where ? — I can look into my mind and
see finer things by much. But if these outward things are fine
with me, the others will be lost that are truly fine, and that
make me so, in the better sense ; or will a fine suit, a fine garden,
or house, make thee fine ? — a fine man indeed ! Thus whilst I am
in search of fineness, hunting beauty, and adding (as I imagine)
great beauty to myself in these ways, I really and in effect
grow deformed and monstrous, sacrificing all internal proportions,
all intrinsic, real beauty and worth for the sake of these things,
which are neither the world's beauty, nor the public's, nor
society's, nor my own in particular, nor anybody's besides.
What beauty then ? how beauty ? how ornaments ? and of
what ? What is it I would beautify and adorn ?
A sight ! — what sight ? — abroad, out of myself ? in things
outward? in matter, paste or dough ? — No, but in gravel,
cockle-shell. — In dirt or clay? — No, but in brick and stone. —
What are gardens, what are houses of show ? — What are
those the children make ? what are dirt-pies ? or where lies
the difference ? in the matter or in the minds thus employed ?
Is it not the same ardour and passion ? the same eagerness and
concern ? the same falling out and in ? angry, and friends again,
in humour and out of humour, crying to get ; then weary and
then crying again, when the same thing is parted with or the
time comes to leave the play. But those are but rattles and
little playthings. — Right : and these are great ones. What is a
rattle ? — a figure, colours, noise ? And what are other noises ?
what are other figures and colours ? — a coach, liveries, parterre
and knolls ? cascades, jetts deau ? — How many rattles ?
What is the whole circumstance put together ? the pedigree,
coronet, seat, garden, name, title ? What is it but as they say
themselves (jestingly, but with a pleasure which they plainly
enough express) to make a rattle ? in earnest, what else ?
252 TJu Philosophical Regimen.
Again then, a sight ! — what sight ? — Anything that is truly
a sight and worth contemplating ? Such an one, indeed, there is,
and such thou art admitted to (thanks to the author and intro
ducer), such thou mayst perfectly enjoy, nor wilt thou ever
satiate of the spectacle. But as for these petty sights and
fancies, these baby structures, house ornaments, or ornaments of
an estate or of a family, a name, a character in the world, or
whichever of the subjects where thou hast a fancy to build and
do great matters; wait but a moment or two, and see how it
will be. Come but a small change in inward or outward
disposition, and immediately, " O wretched ! what is all this ? "
What indeed ? — But had this never been but what it should be,
had these things passed for what they ought to pass, it would
not have been " O wretched ! " Had neither these nor other of
the false sights taken place, amused and thus infatuated, no
change in outwards, no variation abroad, had made any variation,
any revolution or concussion here; but the inward disposition
had been right and well.
How these sights and withal vacate to another spectacle ?
And not only how vacate ? but how apt ? how fitted ? how a
right disposition ? how peace ? How simplicity, for that view,
that object, which is of all the simplest, the divinest, only divine?
LIFE.
Life what ? To whom in common ? volatiles, reptiles,
aquatics and the amphibious kind, flocks, herds, and the herd of
mankind. What is it in the foetus ? what in a worm ? what in
the vegetables ? Filii terrce emancipati. Those with their
mouths upwards catching nourishment here and there ; these
with their mouths downwards, fixed to a place, and sucking
their nourishment from the earth — what difference in the
anatomy ? Where is there any art of curiosity in the one more
than in the other ? Pipes and juices ; and in that other sort, a
more subtle juice ; spirits that agitate to and fro, and move the
strings and wires that move the engine.
If life be anything better than this work, this architecture,
this fabrication of the visa ; if this imagery, work, and statuary,
art of moulding, casting, re-casting, framing, shaping, propor
tioning, modelling, polishing, with the rest of this kind, displease,
quit it, or see what is better. Throw the hammers and tools
away. See what will come of it, and whether the work will
stand or no. But if not, if it be still imagery-work, only of a
worse kind ; if the tools thus flung away should be taken up
against thyself, and thou shouldst begin to be hammered in thy
turn; if such be the nature of the thing, that no sooner one
work is left off but that the other begins ; then methinks it were
better to lay these matters anew upon the anvil, go again to the
forge, set up the pedestals, and to work again with the same
tools, rather than that thou shouldst mount the pedestal thyself,
be wrought upon, and become the handiwork of these unhandy
masters.
Consider of true life and false. A false vegetable life, as
when the root is cut ; a false animal life, as in a syncope, or
when the great nerve is cut ; a false rational life, as when some
thing else is cut, that is to say, with the vulgar, when only the
Svvafjn? xpwrwi [power of service] or simply irapaKo\ovQriTiKv}
[the understanding] is cut ; but with the truly knowing, when
2G3
254 The Philosophical Regimen.
the real 7rapaico\ov6t]TiKri [understanding] suffers or is lost ;
when the TO CI/TPCTTTIKOV KCU aiStjju.ov [the sense of shame and
modesty] is cut off; when this course is intercepted, this energy
ceases, and that aTroX/Owo-f? [petrification] is made, which is
spoken of by Epictetus (Discourses, Bk. I., c. v., § 3).
True life is when that which should be active is active ; that
which should be passive, passive only. True animal life is when
animal spirits with all under them are subject to the will, as
mere will or fancy. True rational life (which with man is only
true life) is when the will, mere will or fancy, is subject to
reason. In the two contraries, it is contrary; in the first of
which (viz., in the animal, false), the spirits obey not, but act of
themselves and cause involuntary motion ; in the second (viz.,
rational, false), the appearances and the fancies in the same
manner lead and govern, are not led and governed. Thus upper
most is undermost : active, passive ; inverting, crossing, and
confusion.
Upon the whole, remember what is true life and what false ;
and that as all life is fancy, or a certain motion, course, and
process of fancies, the business is to know what kind of course,
what exercise this is ; whether a regular march and orderly
procedure in time, measure, and proportion, as when the fancies
are led and governed by a rule ; or whether it be a jumble and
hubbub, as when the fancies lead and govern without rule ; a
mind and will making these to be its subjects, or these a mind
and will; a man governing fancies or fancies a man. One of
these two is necessary; either that a man exercise these, or
these him ; either the mind working upon the fancies, or fancies
governing the work of the mind, and (as people say) making
work with it.
Strenua nos exercet inertia.
[Restless idleness wears us out. — Hor.t Epist. I., xi., 28.]
Invidia vel a more vigil torquebere.
[Sleepless thou wilt be racked by envy or by love. — Ib., L, 2, 37.]
That which is within thee must be either o ei/ cro* #eo? ecrrcio
Tr/ooo-Ta-n/?1 [the deity presiding within] vovv KCU Saifjiova? [intellect
and the daemon], an ^Esculapius, a Hermes, a Mulciber, or
i Marcus Aurelius Meditations, Bk. Ill,, § 5. 2 Ibid., Bk. III., § 7.
Life. 255
wretched matter, clay, metal, drugs in the hands of wretched
chemists, or merciless Cyclops.
The fiaifjiow and TO Sai/u,6viov ; the TO /yyeyuow/coV [the ruling
faculty] and TO Oeiov [Deity]. Copy and original ; the same here
in the microcosm as in the TO irav [the whole]. Either atoms or
Deity. No medium. That multiplicity or this simplicity. No
compromise — anarchy, or monarchy.
That which is governed is here wholly for the sake of that
which governs, and that which governs is of a different species, far
nobler than that which is governed, and this is according to order.
Come on, then. Again, what are we ? — Minds. What are
minds ? — Intelligences, reasons. — Yes, to what purpose ? What
good for ? Of what use ? — To get estates, make fortunes. — What
are estates ? what are fortunes ? — Coaches, dishes, wine, lechery,
toys. — Say then rightly what it is we are. For those minds we
talk of are but appurtenances or means. These are the real
things. TO. OVTCOS ovra. In another sense, what have we our
minds for ?— For these. — Where are our interests ? — In these.
—Where are our thoughts and employment ? — In these.
In short, where lies the whole of the matter : life, happiness,
misery ? — In these ? These are our concerns, from hence we
have our characters, and here we have our very true and
genuine selves. Why, therefore, should we not denominate our
selves from these ? So lords from their land. This is their
name. Are they not proud of it ?
A man, who ? one belonging to such a piece of ground. — So
here — a man, who ? what creature ? what thing ? — a mind — how
so ? by what title ? how is a mind belonging to him or he to a
mind ? — What shall we say then ? who ? what ? — a human figure
and voice ; one belonging to a live-body ; to a piece of flesh of
such a feeling; to certain members and senses. For what is
principal ? what guides ? what is the rudder ?
This is that he, that reason, mind, or rather thinking
appurtenances — understanding ? intelligence ? as how ? what ? —
a little craft, an animal power, or use of fancy, with the help of
a cunning sort of a language, articulate sounds to the imagery
of fancy. — And is this all ? Notable compound ! pretty device to
cater (as a good man says) for a body. A good convenient mind
and serviceable reason : the humble handmaid, servant, drudge,
256 The Philosophical Regimen.
or (to speak broader) the band and pomp to these principal parts
and essentialities of life. Cibus, somnus, libido, per hunc
circulum curritur. Consider the excellency of this work ;
what life is, and how to be prized whilst it is thus. And
know withal that if it be in earnest prized, it is beautiful it
is thus, and no better ; for when it ceases to be thus and becomes
an honest, good life, it will no longer be prized at this rate, but
perfectly indifferent, readily resigned, and of the two rather
more freely parted with than kept.
*' AenraOeta. — From one pulsation (as in a water engine)
to another ; from one draught and remission of air to another !
from repletion to exoneration ; and from exoneration to reple
tion ; from toil and labour to rest ; and from dreams of one
sort to dreams and delusions of another.
This is life — recruiting, repairing, feeding, cleansing, purging;
aliments, rags, excrements, dregs. Which of all these sensations
is it for which life is eligible ? Where is the day or hour in
which we can say we live upon the present, and that our
happiness is not still future and in promise ? Which part of our
past life would we desire to live over again ? or for the diversions
of that age which next succeeded ? If for neither, what is it, then,
that we call sweet in life ? Where can any future pleasures or
joys (if it is by these that we reckon, equal the vigour and
liveliness of those past and of an age when the sensations of
that kind are exquisitest ? Where, therefore, lies the charm and
temptation ? The past and present are nothing ; and the future
is all. Now, what can this produce ? Everything wastes and is
perishing; everything hastens to its dissolution; already thou
thyself art come to a perfect growth ; and now thy body is in
decline, and faster and faster must corrupt. Mortalities must
every day be expected — friends dropping off, accidents and
calamities impending, diseases, lamenesses, deafness, loss of sight,
of memory, of parts. Few persons in the world grow better, and
many grow worse every day, so as to lose the natural good
dispositions they once had. All is misery, disappointment, and
regret. In vain we endeavour to drive away those thoughts ;
in vain we strive by humour and diversion to raise ourselves;
iRott., 1698.
Life. 257
which is but to fall the lower. He and he only is in any degree
happy, who can confront these things ; who can steadily look on
them without turning away his sight; and who, knowing the
sum and conclusion of all, waits for the finishing of his part,
his only care in the meanwhile being to act that part as
becomes him and to preserve his mind entire and sound,
unshaken and uncorrupt; in friendship with mankind, and in
unity with that original mind with respect to which nothing
either does or can happen but what is most agreeable and con
ducing, and what is of universal good.
Consider the number of animals that live and draw their
breath, and to whom belongs that which we call life, for which
we are so much concerned ; beasts, insects, the swarm of man
kind sticking to this earth, the number of males and females in
copulation, the number of females in delivery, and the number of
both sexes in this one and the same instant expiring'and at their
last gasp ; the shrieks, cries, voices of pleasure, shoutings, groans,
and the mixed noise of all these together. Think of the number
of those that died before thou wert or since ; how many of those
that came into the world at the same time and since; and of
those now alive, what alteration. Consider the faces of those of
thy acquaintance as thou sawest them some years since ; how
changed since then ! how macerated and decayed ! All is
corruption and rottenness ; nothing at a stay, but continued
changes ; and changes renew the face of the world.
If every life be liveable, then is a dog's, or, what is worse, a
cunning 'flattering man's. What is a silly bird's ? a bee's ? a
cricket's ? A merry one (as they say) ? a simple-hearted,
innocent one ? a busy one ? a famous and (as they count) an
important one ? What are all these ?
But do thou remember what life and the law of life is
(T/? 6 pHDTiKos VO/ULOS — Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xxvi.), and, therefore,
as is shown here, on every occasion to conform to nature
(«/ Travrl arroxaa-reov — Ibid., Bk. I., c. xxvi., § 2), otherwise the
life not liveable; and, being below thy species and what thou
wert born to, is better and more generously quitted. KaXA/to
Odvarov a-Ke^d/mevo^ aTraXXdrrov rov fliov [a Acknowledge death
to be better than life, and depart hence." — Plato, Laws, ix., 854 c.].
Either one or the other, see which, and do honestly as is best.
T
258 The Philosophical Regimen.
If life be no such precious thing ; if every life be not indeed
worth living, not even in the most vulgar opinion (since even
the vulgar can despise it on certain terms) ; if only, then, such a
certain life be to a man eligible, worth living, worth preserving
and cherishing, with that necessary pain and labour the life
requires ; then consider on every comparison of thy own with
other lives that thou seest are lived, whether by men or beasts,
that which is no way valuable. Parts can no way be so in the
whole. What is this, therefore, that we call pleasure for which
we would live ?
The pleasures of the debauch, amours with women ; the
basking of a fowl on a dung-hill ; the crowing and victory of the
cocks; the State victories; the campaign victories. Would I
live this life ? Would I live a dog ? would I be a wolf, a sheep,
a goat ? Then say at such a time, " Am I not this or that
creature ? " — Eating (as loving eating), venery (as taking
with venery), playing (as minding play, delighted with play)
— What is all this ? what is all play ? what is jest and then
earnest ? Have I known anything better ? have I been a man ?
If so, is not this a real metamorphosis, transformation ; and is
not this always made and in being in every part of life that is
not led after a certain rule and with a certain consciousness ?
Life is as those that live it. What are those ? What
are we ? Nos numerus sumus et fruges consumers nati.1
Tolerable carrion; fit to be let live. Honest poor rascals
not so bad as when they say "scarce worth the hanging."
Life- worthy persons, if a bare liveable life. But say, what are
we ? What do we make of ourselves ? How esteem ourselves ?
Warm flesh, with feelings, aches, and appetites. The puppet — play
of fancies. — O the solemn, the grave, the ponderous business. —
Complex ideas, dreams, hobby-horses, houses of cards, steeples
and cupolas. — The serious play of life. — Shows, spectacles, rites,
formalities, processions; children playing at bugbears, frighting
one another through masks. The herald, priests, cryer. The
trump of fame ; the squeaking trumpet and cat-call ; the gowns !
habits ! robes ! How underneath ? How in the nightcaps,
1 " We are a mere number, and born to consume the fruits of the
earth."— Hor., Epist. I., 2, 27.
Life. 259
between the curtains and sleeps ? How anon in the family with
wife, servants, children, or where even none of these must see ?
Private pleasures, other privacies ? the closet and bed-chamber,
parlours, dining-rooms, dressing-rooms, and other rooms. In
sickness, in lazy hours, in wines, in lechery ? taking in, letting
out. — O the august assembly; each of you, such as you are apart !
What is life to the very vulgar in a certain aspect ? — How
at these seasons and on those occasions when they consider life
as mere life — the same in one creature as in another ? Hogs,
dogs, worms, insects, dray-horse, the shambles and slaughter
houses, the common soldiery.
This is that thing so sad to part with, so precious to retain.
This is that catastrophe ! The bottom of the tragedy ! Is not
this all ? Do not the vulgar see this ? Why else is that of the
tragedian hearkened to and received so well ? " To be or not
to be," &c. — " A consummation devoutly to be wished."
The buffoon on the stage. We are all but spans and candle-
ends. But this is a jest. Is it so ? Bring me a Caligula ; 'twill
be quickly earnest. The comedy of the Gallo-Greeks. Excellent
play. Admirable comedian. Nothing more instructive. Who
could better make this out ? Who ever saw this ridicule better
or showed it more perfect ? But this was horrid ! Was it so ?
When the jest is turned, it seems it is earnest and not to be
laughed at.
Temporibus dives — words 3 words ! How is it in a sickness
time ? a fire ? an earthquake ? Are not these the same as the
tyrant ? Do they not do more work ? What is nature doing
every day ? Where is the tyranny ? Where the tragedy ? Why
tragedise ? Does not this make out the spans ? Or what are
we, forsooth — ells, fathoms; not spans, long-lasting papers, nor
snuffs and candle-ends.
Majores nostri praelerierunt, nos abimus, posteri sequentur;
quid istuc quaeso ? quid istuc est ? Niliil ita crebro ut mortem
vident. Niliil ita obliviscuntur ut mortem. [Our ancestors
have passed away, we are passing, our descendants will follow •
what is this, pray ? what ? Men see nothing so often as death.
They forget nothing so often] as a wild, modern scholastic
has it. Or a late preacher in: Our very graves were once
living. We dig through our forefathers to bury our friends, and
260 The Philosophical Regimen.
shall soon become earth ourselves to bury our posterity.
O the bustle ; a day or year, more or less ; what a business
usque !
Wish for noon; then for evening; then for to-morrow;
then for next day. A week hence and I shall receive such a
letter. In a fortnight afterwards I shall be satisfied about such
an affair. Next month I shall see an end of this and what the
issue of the other. One year more and I shall see how this
matter in the public is like to go; and how that other in my
own family. And when all this ' is come about, what then ?
Will things be all settled and fixed when they are come thither ?
Will the sun and moon stop their course ? or, which is all one,
will those changes, successions, or revolutions of things be
stopped, or but suspended or stayed ? Must not corruptions,
decays, and deaths carry on the course of the world ? Are not
particular men and societies of men, families, and nations included
in this great circulation ? Are not relations, friends, thy country,
self, included ? And are not all things continually changing
state ? — What state of affairs is it that thou waitest for ? WThat
wouldst thou see brought about, in thy family or country ? Are
they flourishing or but in a tolerable way now at the present ?
Wait but a little and thou shalt see it otherwise. Mortalities
will come; corruptions, public and private. Friends falling off
by degrees and carried away; some by death, others before
death : a new face of things ; new revolutions. Or wouldst thou
live and grow older and yet expect to see no deaths, no changes,
no disorders, no decays ? If this be senseless, what is it to wait
for events, to look out for new settlements and regulations, to
build, and rear, and prop that which can never stand, and is still
mouldering away faster and faster ? Why look beyond this
day ? Why live still for to-morrow and not the present ? — But
when I have seen an end of this, this shall be the last time. —
And so every time. How long has it been thus ? How often
deceived ? To what an age art thou now come since this was
determined ? And see where thou findst thyself ! Is it not at
the same place, meditating the same things, and in the same
manner ?
When, therefore, wilt thou begin to live ? How long shall
thy life be thus imperfect and broken ? How long ere thou
Life. 261
rememberest that thou art not to live to-morrow, but to-day ?
And that thou dost not live to-day, unless to-morrow be as it
were set out and appointed for death ?
As oft as thou sayst to-morrow, remember that to-morrow is
for death and not for life ; otherwise thou art dead already ; and
dead still in a worse sense, if what is said here be not
thoroughly felt.
Remember that life is this present moment, and that it is
ridiculous to live ill now, in order to live well at any time hence.
And yet how oft is this the case ?
Remember that the best preparation against the future is to
mind the present.
One ten years more, and then another ten ; and then even
in a vulgar way death is to be thought on, and thoughts turned
that way. Who shall succeed ? Who inherit ? And is it not
truly vulgar to stay till then ? and either now, or then, to be
concerned for more than this present ?
Will it be any otherwise than it has been ? Was it not
to-day as it was yesterday ? and yesterday as the day before ?
Think about yesterday as the day before. Think what yesterday
was, and how far thou wouldst esteem it an advantage to live it
over again, and so again and again. Who would bear it ? Yet
what is life else ? Why need another yesterday ? How often
wouldst thou live it over again ? To what further time wouldst
thou live ? Hast thou seen enough ? Is not once seeing enough ?
How often wouldst thou be spectator ? how long a guest ?
Where is the modesty of this ? where the respect, the observance,
duty, gratitude towards the master of the feast ? Enough, then.
Rise and give thanks. — Pass on, move. You have seen. Let
others see.
At night always thus. I have been admitted to the
spectacle, I have seen, I have applauded. It is enough. Thanks
to Him who introduced me, who gave me this privilege, this
advantage.
In the morning am I to see anew ? am I to be present yet
longer and content ? I am not weary nor ever can be of such a
spectacle, such a theatre, such a presence ; nor of acting what
soever part such a master assigns me. Be it ever so long, I stay
and am willing to see on whilst my sight continue sound ; whilst
262 The Philosophical Regimen.
I can be a spectator, such as I ought to be; whilst I can see
reverently, justly, with understanding and applause. And when
I can see no more I retire, not disdainfully, but in reverence to
the spectacle and master, giving thanks, rw Ke/cA^o'rt are eV
cwra, T<£ a^LOv rijs x^Pa^ Tavrris KCKpiKori. [To Him who
hath called one to them and judged one worthy a part. —
Epict. Disc., Bk. II., c. i., § 39].
To die the death — of what ? of a dog ? a hog or sheep ? No,
but of a man. How go to slaughter like a man ? What is
slaughter (see the bugbear word) ? What is fever ? the stone ?
the gout ? Is not this slaughter ? What tyrant ? what Caligula ?
What knives ? Are not these knives ? or a sword, or axe, any
thing more ? Does it make longer work ? Is it not a human lot,
a common exit, and as incident to honest man as any other bye-
way ? — as the falling of a horse, or the falling into a ditch ?
Die in a ditch ! No, by no means ; but in a feather bed, which
is much softer ; and to be choked by a quinsy or imposthume,
far better than by so much puddle. — Or is the bed of honour so
much better ? — There it is now again the ditch water may serve,
provided it be the town-ditch, when the place is stormed, or if
the battle be at some canal or muddy ford. — Excellent, noble \
for this surely is a manly work, this a human and generous
death : to die pursuing, wounding, killing, not wild beasts, foxes,
or hares, but men, of the same blood and kind with us. — To be
buried by a mine, to be blown up, or drowned, be it earth, air,
water, anything, any place, any manner, it is one and the same,
alike honourable, indifferent ; so it be but in the field, so it be
the general's command. Wretch ! What general ? what field ?
who gives the command ? Under whom art thou enlisted ?
who brought thee into the field of action ? What is honour ?
what valour, fortitude, magnanimity ? Is there a cause ? is
there a leader ? If none, what are those other causes and this
ado about a public and a world ? But if there be a real cause,
what is it but that supreme one and that which he commands ?
And then, what death is there that should concern us ? — What
but that one sort, viz., that it be a ready one, a free one, a
noble one ? Why talk to us of a ditch or knife ? why of a
scaffold ? If it be his command, it is honourable ; and the less it
seems so to others, the more honourable still in itself, the more
Life. 263
disinterested the part, the more generously hard and soldier-like.
For how is it that the good soldier is tried ? and what is it they
call part of honour ? and for whom ? What part would the
women in all likelihood have assigned them were women also to
be in the fight ? Who are they that in a sea engagement are
sent down into the hold ? — Wouldst thou be thus taken care of ?
Wouldst thou be insured from fire, water, and a ditch, that thou
shouldst not die by any of these, though by chance thou dropped
into them, nor by the iron, nor the cord (if the occasion were),
nor after any of these ways they call ends ? — How sad ! Is it
not necessary then thou shouldst be sad ? Why not as well as
merry ? Why not as well an instant or an hour before death as
twenty hours or a hundred times twenty (for some certain
number thou must count) ? Why not as well before this sort of
death (suppose) now coming as any other sort of death by and
bye to come ? — But this is an ignominious one, this is shameful. —
In respect of what ? of whom ? of the laws of the universe ? or
of these idle tales, the play and talk of children ? Say truth
then, and confess thyself one of these children. Confess that
thou either knowest no such universe, nor laws, nor chief; or
that such as He is, thou art ashamed of Him ; as being ashamed
of His Administration and Providence.
To die any death is natural, for one door is the same as
another. The natural or unnatural is the going out. How this
is done : with what mind. For if with a right mind, this is all
that the nature of a rational creature requires or needs. He has
all he wants. It is a consummation. All the numbers are full ;
the measures perfect ; the harmony complete.
To die, when over, is to do nothing ; when not over, it is to
live. It is in life, therefore, or nowhere, that death is. It is
death indeed to fear death. It is death to live and dream. See
that thou dost not truly live this death; and it is no matter
what death thou diest.
How many deaths in such a life as this ? What else is
death ? What hideous, what ghastly, but this alone ? What
skeleton or corpse but this ? What spectre beside these sad
spectres, heavy dreams and haunting visions ? The nightmare,
agony, endeavours and efforts to awake.
To go to death ! — Right, whither else wouldst thou go ?
264 The Philosophical Regimen.
Wouldst thou be carried, perhaps, or drawn ? Is this the right
way of going ? Wouldst thou thus go ? or not go at all ? What
is life but going? What is passing away time, diverting,
sleeping, playing, planting, building, dining, supping, and to bed,
but going? What is this that thou art at present doing but
going ? For, even if improving (if, happily, this be so), what is
it else but going and having to go ?
To draw to an end ! — Right, what wouldst thou draw to
else ? Wouldst thou draw to thy beginning and be so nmch
nearer to thy birthday ? If not then to thy death day. So tike
it and be content. What else wert thou born for ? What did
thy birth signify ? What betoken or portend ? Immutability ?
Duration ? Perpetuity ?
To go to death. — Dost thou not go every night ? Or are
dreams life ? Such dreams, too, as are thine as yet ? Often
impure, seldom composed, seldom restraint, correction, or
redress. How when waking ? What if little better then 1
— Is this life ? Are these the dreams so heavily parted with ?
Is this the thing — to die?
To go to death. To go from life. — To go from eating and
drinking. Dost thou not go from them, rise from them every
day ? But I would go again. I have not gone often enough. —
How many times more ? Away, man ! rise, wipe thy mouth ;
throw up thy napkin and have done. A bellyful (they say) is
as good as a feast. Enough of these fillings and emptyings.
Up, once for all, and make not such a business of meals, which
are just as satisfactory when over, and the sooner over (except
to a hog, or worse creature than a hog) the better.
Death (they say) is a debt to nature. Why not, rather, life
that debt, and this happily over, the debt paid and the account
discharged ?
Nature debtor to life. Life the credit side of the account.
Death the balance due, always ready. Does the trade displease ?
Take the balance and the account, or why complain ? Either
trade honestly, or leave off. But make not these wrong charges
and ridiculous articles. What does it signify ? Who will be
cheated by it ? On whom is the house like to fall ?
If life be indeed such a gain, such a prize as made of, then
have I indeed a debt to pay. But if otherwise I am now
Life. 265
paying, and being come to die, it is I that am paid ; it is I
that have been creditor, and nature justly and kindly gives
me back my debt.
The more worth the less valued : the more valued the less
worth. And this with justice, for what is there worth valuing
in life besides the actions that depend on this very indifference ?
for, as for the other actions, what are they ?
1 Consider that even with the truly wise, the truly happy
man, life still is but indifferent. How, therefore, with thee ? Can
it be so much as indifferent ? If there no gain, here what loss ?
and how dear may it cost ere it is over.
On one side sure of no harm : on the other side sure of no
good ; but perhaps harm. How is this condition equal ? See
what thou f earest when thou fearest death.
It is but for once. — Comfort thyself — for what ? for death ?
No, but for life, for this is the thing more rightly. — It is but for
once. — Right. — Once only such a body, such senses, such offices
about a body and matters belonging. A moment or two, and all
will be well ; and why not even this moment, if all within be
well, as it should be ?
By virtue all is made well ; for now, if for now only ; for
hereafter, if for hereafter.
If more life after this, will it not be the better still for what
I am doing ? If no more, is it not well that I do as I do ?
All who have denied order and a God have denied a future
state, for we never hear yet of a future state and no God, though
of a God and no future state. If, therefore, there be a future
state, how can all be but well ? If nothing future this is all the
ill. And why ill ? why not all well ? If so, why not stay ? If
otherwise, go ; who hinders ? — Is not this well ?
2 The several stages, and the last stage. — The travelling by
the messenger, the procaccio in Italy. After a long journey,
many events, many hardships, many escapes, at last welcome to
Florence, Rome, Naples, or the place desired, the harbour, the
end of the voyage.
So of life. The end, the upshot, harbour, and port. All was
but to get well hither, all but to this end. What fatigues by the
1 St. Giles, May, 1705. 2 probably Naples, 1712.
266 The Philosophical Regimen.
way ; what hazards ? In what company ? Wherein the satisfac
tion of travelling for travelling's sake ? — But art thou come safe ?
and hast thou wrought of a safe mind ? Is all well and sound ?
Then welcome ! and why not as well when sooner as when later ?
Why not the rather, when sooner ? But be it sooner or later
it well deserves the welcome and usual compliments of the
procaccio.
The same in any disturbance of life. Remember the usual
comfort upon the road. " It will soon be over. We shall soon
be at the place."
Why make a business of so little ? The play is short.
Be not morose, but sit it out. Two acts are over; there is
no fear of a fourth or a fifth, and in all likelihood thou
shalt be acquitted for less than even the second, which is
yet unspent.
Whether the rub be in the passage or thyself ? — Where
indeed but in thyself ? For what passage in nature is gentler,
smoother, easier ? Unless perhaps thou art frighted at the
convulsions and pulling of the things, when even sense is in a
manner gone. Does pain increase as senses decrease ? Are these
the agonies. Is this the passing ? the hard thing ? Is it not
easier still the nearer it approaches ? Is it not (as the buffoon
said) all down at hill ? What road is plainer or better beaten ?
What path more flowery, if rightly taken ? Where is the gulf
(as they say) to be shot ? — Shooting of the gulf 1 — Is not this
story and that of the vulgar much alike ?
What passage or thoroughfare, transmission or change, more
natural than the passing of this animation, breath, or spirit from
this channel or rivulet into that other ? as that common descrip
tion of the poet's, a river disemboguing itself into the sea : at
first perhaps from rocks and through steep countries.
Non sine montium
Clamore vicinaeque silvae.
[Not without noise of mountains and of the neighbouring wood. —
Hor., Odes III., 29, 38-9.]
But at last gliding with gentleness into the bosom of a Thetis.
Cum pace delabentis Etruscum
In mare.
[Peacefully gliding to the Etruscan sea. — Ibid., line 36.]
PHILOSOPHY.
What specious exercise is found in those which are called
" Philosophical Speculations l ? " The formation of ideas, their
compositions, comparisons, agreement and disagreement ! What
is to the purpose ? what can have a better appearance ? what
can bid fairer for genuine and true philosophy ? It is well. But
let me look a while within myself. Let me observe there
whether or no there be connections and consistency, agreement or
disagreement ; whether that which I approve this hour I do not
disapprove the next ; but keep my opinion, liking, and esteem
of things the same. If otherwise, to what purpose is all this
reasoning and acuteness ?
2 To-day things have succeeded well with me, consequently
my hopes and opinions are raised. " It is a fine world ! All is
glorious ! Everything delightful ! Mankind, conversation, com
pany, society. What can be more desirable ?" To-morrow comes
disappointment, crosses, disgrace. And what follows ? " O
miserable mankind ! wretched state ! Who would live out of
solitude ? who would engage in the public or serve mankind ? "
Where is truth, certainty, evidence, so much talked of ? It is
here that they are to be maintained if anywhere. 3Again, what
are my ideas of the world of pleasure, riches, fame, life ? What
judgment am I to make of mankind and human affairs ? What
sentiments am I to frame ? what opinions ? or maxims ? If
none at all, why do I concern myself for anything, or study
anything with such nicety of distinction ? What is it to me, for
instance, to know what kind of ideas I can have of space ?
The three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles,
of this I have clear ideas ; this I can be certain of. What is this
to me ? What am I the wiser or better ? Let me hear con
cerning what is of some use to me. Let me hear (for instance)
concerning life, what the right notions, and what I am to stand
!See Characteristics, I., p. 299. * Ibid., 300. 3 Ibid., 301.
267
268 The Philosophical Regimen.
to that I may, when the spleen comes, not cry " vanity," and at
the same time complain that " time is short and passing." For
why so short, if not found sweet ? Why do I complain both
ways ? Is vanity, mere vanity a happiness ? Or can misery
pass away too soon ? This is of moment to me to examine.
This is what is worth my while. If I cannot find the agreement
or disagreement of my ideas in this place ; if I can come to
nothing certain here; what is all the rest to me ? What signifies
it how I come by my ideas, or how I compound them ; which
are simple and which complex ? If I have a right idea of life
now at this moment, that I think slightly of it, and resolve with
myself that it may easily be laid down on any honourable
occasion of service to my friends or country, teach me how
I shall remain in this opinion ; what it is that changes ; and how
this disturbance happens ; by what innovation, what composition,
what intervention of other ideas. If this be the subject of the
philosophical art, I readily apply to it and study it. If there
be nothing of this in the case I have no occasion for the sort of
learning, and am no more desirous of knowing how I form or
compound those ideas which are distinguished by words,
than I have of knowing how and by what motions of my
mouth I form those articulate sounds, which I can full
as well pronounce and use without any such science or
speculation.
But it is necessary I should examine my ideas. — But what
ideas ? The ideas of space, extension, solidity ? What is it to me
whether a vacuum or a plenitude ? whether matter be divisible
ad infinitum or not divisible ? What have I to do with the
examination of those ideas which I may be the best versed in
of any man in the world, and yet of all men be the farthest
from tranquillity ?
The cataract in the eye and the many other cures in physic.
In mathematics how ? in astronomy ? The world moving : sun
standing still. Say this to the vulgar and hear what they will
reply. Thus even in trade and politics (subjects vulgar enough
and such as interest causes to be well examined), consider the
two propositions : " an ounce of silver worth an ounce of silver,"
and "dominion founded in property." Easy maxims, plain,
certain, yet how hard ! What a mystery and how unintelligible
Philosophy. 269
to the greater part of professors in this kind ! Consider now of
the ope£i<? [desire], the e/c/cXfo-f? [aversion], how easy ! No ret e<£
rj/jCiv and OVK e<f> r] fj.lv [the things which and the things which are
not in our power], the Trpoalpera [the will], and the a-Trpoaipera
[the absence of will]. How easy and yet —
To solve the phenomena in a true sense : not the phenomena
of the skies or meteors: not those in mathematics, mechanics,
physics ; not those which, by solving or unfolding ever so skil
fully, one is neither better, nor happier, nor wiser, nor more a
man of sense or worth ; of a more open, free understanding,
liberal disposition; a more enlarged mind or a generous heart:
but those which, being not unfolded nor well resolved, contract
and narrow a man's genius, cause a real poorness in the under
standing, disturb, distract, amaze, confound, perplex, lead away
like those dancing fires of the ignis fatuus, plunge into abysses
and cast into endless labyrinths. Who would not be learned and
expert in this art ? and yet who is ? — But be thou, since thou
mayest be. For what is there easier ? or costs less ? Hast thou
not tried? — Enough then, MeXe'ra cTriXeyeiv OTI ' 0ai/Ta<r/a ec KCU
ov Trai/Too? TO <j>aivo/uievov '. [" Practise saying ' You are an appear
ance, and in no manner what you appear.' " — Epict. £Jnch.,
c. i., § 5.] Let this be thy philosophy and leave the other
phenomena for others.
Either that which I call philosophy is so from the subtlety
and niceness of the speculation (and then mathematics, physics,
and all of that kind is philosophy), or from its being the superior
and judge of all the others, as that which teaches happiness and
gives the rule of life. Again, if the study of happiness be
philosophy, and that happiness be in outward things, then the
study of those outward things in which happiness consists, and
how to attain these outward things, is philosophy ; and the study
of wealth, preferment, or some other such thing, must be that
which we call philosophy. Whereas if happiness be not in out
ward things, but in a mind, then the way to happiness must be
to correct and amend those opinions which we commonly have of
outward things ; and thus the work of philosophy is to fortify a
mind, to learn how to be secure against avarice, ambition, intem
perance; how to throw off cowardice and effeminacy; how to
cure disquiet, restlessness, anxiety, and to find that which may
270 The Philosophical Regimen.
satisfy and content us, since riches, honours, &c., neither can, nor
if they could, are such as to be counted on, as durable or certain.
Here therefore lies philosophy (if philosophy be anything), and
this every one sees is a matter of practice. What have I to do,
therefore, with those speculations which relate not to my own
amendment ? But it is necessary I should examine my ideas. —
But what ideas ? The ideas of space, extension, solidity ? What
is it to me whether a vacuum or a plenitude ? whether matter be
divisible ad infinitum or not divisible ? What have I to do with
the examination of those ideas which I may be the best versed in
of any in the world, and yet of all men be the farthest from
tranquillity ?
1 Why wonder at philosophy ? If philosophy be (as defined)
the study of happiness, what does every one but in some
manner or another, either skilfully or unskilfully, philosophise ?
For, either happiness is in outward things, or from self and
outward things together, or from self alone and not from out
ward things. If from outward things alone, then show us that
all men are equally happy in proportion to these ; and that no
one is ever miserable by his own fault.
But this nobody pretends to show, but all confess the
contrary. It remains, therefore, that happiness is either from
self alone, or from outward things and self. If from self alone,
what should I do but study self. If partly from outward
things, partly from self, then each must be considered, and some
price or other set to those matters of an inward kind and that
depend on self alone. If so, and that I consider in what and
how these are to be preferred, how they are to take place, or
how yield ; what is this but to philosophise ?
For, what must I do in this case ; since something there is
which depends on myself ? How is that self to be governed ?
How far, and in what, am I to be concerned ? If any way at all,
it must be thus : how to free myself from those contradictory
pursuits and opposite passions which make me inconsistent with
myself and own resolutions; how to extinguish that which is
the occasion of repentance ; how to calm my anger ; how
to quell resentment and revenge; how to contain in matter
1 Characteristics, II., pp. 438-439.
Philosophy. 271
of venery, so as not to fall into extravagant loves, or be
entangled in any passion of that sort from whence I may not
easily get free ; how to keep out luxury and hinder effeminacy,
laziness, and those other sorts of passions from gaining ground ;
how to stand out against ambition, prevent avarice and immoderate
appetites ; how to bear with accidents and support the common
chances of the world. — But if I study this, and turn philosopher
after this manner, I shall be of no consideration in the world ;
I shall lose other advantages. — Right. And therefore this still is
philosophy, this is the thing itself, 1 to inquire where and in what
we are losers ; which are the greatest gains ; 2 whether I shall find
my account in letting these inward matters run as they please ;
or whether I shall be better secure against fortune, by settling
matters within, than by acquiring first one great friend and then
another; or by adding still more and more to my estate or
quality. Begin, then, and set the bounds ; let us hear how far
are we to go and no further ?. what is a moderate fortune, a com
petency, and those other degrees commonly talked of ? Where is
my anger to stop ? or how high to rise ? How far may I engage
in amours and love ? how far give way to ambition ? how far
to other appetites? Or am I to set all loose? are all these passions
to take their swing and no application to be given to these ; but
all to the outward things they aim at ? Or if any application be
requisite, say how much to the one and how much to the other ?
How far are the appetites to be minded, and how far outward
things ? Give us the measure and rule ; see whether this
be not to philosophise, and whether willingly or unwillingly
every one does not do as much. — Where, then, is the difference ?
who is it that philosophises well, who ill ? — Weigh and
consider. —
But the examination is troublesome, and I had better be
without it. — Who says this ? — Reason. — Hast thou, therefore,
polished thy reason, bestowed pains upon it, and exercised it in
this subject ? Or, is it likely to pronounce fully as well when
unexercised as when exercised ? Whose reason is truest in
mathematics ? His whose is exercised, or whose is un-exercised ?
Whose in policy and civil affairs ? whose in physic, or any other
1 Characteristics, II., p. 439. -Ibid., p. 440-1.
272 The Philosophical Regimen.
subject whatsoever ? How comes morality and life to be alone
excepted ?
Thus is philosophy established for, as every one reasons,
and cannot but of necessity reason concerning his own happiness,
concerning what is his good, what his ill ; so the question here is
only who reasons best. For, even he who rejects this reasoning
or deliberating part, does it from a certain reason, and from a
persuasion that this is best.
LETTEES,
TO JOHN LOCKE. i
PARIS, December 1st, 1687.
DEAR SIR, — Though I expect now a letter from you very
soon, yet the concern I have lest the trouble you gave yourself
about me has made you ill, make me not neglect this post ; nor
am I willing to hazard the prolonging of it to one letter only.
I am removed since that and come into a pension, where now
you may direct your letters to me. It is an Chateau vieux dans
la rue de St. Andre des Arts.
I have yet pitched on no masters of exercise. Till I have
done that I can prefix myself no hours to study, nor have I yet
bought any but French books.
These plays here are very ordinary either to read or see.
Their opera I have not seen yet, but shall to-morrow. I am
afraid I shall like that but too well, for I am a perfect slave to
fine music. I find I can conform better to their dirt here than
their manners. I have hitherto had no disturbance from our
own countrymen. Here are not, as I am told, by half so many
as there were last winter.
Sir John is this moment beginning his French and his
master at his ventilabria, which divert me from what I am doing.
Though truly I have no more to say now, but how much and
1 John Locke was living in Holland at this time on account of
the part he had played in English political affairs through his relations
to the First Earl of Shaftesbury. Lord Ashley (afterwards the First
Earl of Shaftesbury) visited him at Rotterdam at the beginning of his
tour on the Continent, after leaving the school at Winchester. He
then proceeded to Paris, where he wrote to Locke the first of those
letters which have here been obtained from the Lovelace Collection.
V 273
274 Letters.
with how great sincerity I am your obliged friend and humble
servant, A. ASHLEY.
Sir John1 desires me to give his humble service and Mr.
Denoun2 presents his to you.
[Address] : For Mr. Locke, to be left with Mr. Benjamin Furly,
Op. de Schipmakers' Haven, tot Rotterdam, Holland.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
PARIS, December 22nd, 1687.
DEAR SIR, — But that I am not ashamed to reveal my
greatest frailties to you, I would not make you the confession
I am going, of having deferred until now the answering of yours
(though received the day before yesterday). But I hope the
ingenuity of this declaration will merit your belief, when I tell
you that it was the effect of my desire only to do it in better
order, and^when I had time enough to myself to be some hours
alone with you, though in absence, whereby I hoped to give
myself as well as you more satisfaction. But since I could not
and have not yet obtained that wish, I must content myself (as
not the first time) with what I can get, and make the best use of
it. The reason of this has been that I am just now surprised by
a message from the envoy with a journey to Versailles to-morrow
at six o'clock, with whom we were engaged to go the next time
he went thither.
It is unnecessary here to speak of my concern at your not
receiving mine, mixed with the joy for the danger I escaped by
writing my second. But I must needs tell you I am not satisfied
that you speak nothing particularly of your health as I desired
you. And this is no manner of customary or ceremonious
question in me, but what I desire earnestly to be resolved me,
as I find by myself, that that friendly expression so often used
by Tully, cura ut valeas [take care of your health], is
not ill-grounded, for I find your health of such concern to me
that I cannot but use that expression to you here, and truly
1 Sir John Cropley. 2 Lord Ashley's tutor
Letters. 275
I have a reason more incumbent on me, for that I fear I have
been the cause of some bad to you, as I need not wonder, when
you would use so many hazards, so much against my will, on
my account.
To thank you for the advice I have received in your letters,
as well as from your mouth, would be a subject too big for this
paper, or indeed for my tongue, and is what I shall never
attempt, or at least never pretend to speak of as it deserves.
So that I resolve to lay all that aside and beg to be dealt by
as I do, and I natter myself that if it were only to satisfy
me, Mr. Locke would quit everything that might be a hindrance
to speaking his mind to me freely, and that might be so many
clouds to that light I receive.
It is now pretty late, and I can only let you know that
for my exercises I have begun none, nor shall I until the
holidays are over, for it will be but losing so much money.
Lord Salisbury's new convert is here, come since I, but has nor
will hardly receive any visit from me : which I find he resents.
He has with him two more English converts, one Hales is one,
besides some priests whom he carries with him. Sir John
Cropley desires me to give you his humble service, and Mr.
Denoun gives you his. If you can read this I shall have my
intent, which is only to do better than to lose to-morrow and
stay till next post.
Believe me, that I am, with all sincerity, your most obliged
friend and servant.
TO HIS FATHER, i
HAMBURG, May 3rd (Old Style), 1689.
MY LORD, — The hardships I have suffered in a terrible
German journey of almost two months, with the respite of only
a few days, might have been much more tolerable if in that time
I could have had occasions to have eased myself by that satisfac
tion and real pleasure which, in my assurance that by every
1 This letter is of importance, as it gives us for the first time an
account of a considerable part of Lord Ashley's early journey abroad,
after leaving the school at Winchester.
276 Letters.
letter I create it to your lordship and my mother, I receive
myself in so great measure when I write. But nothing that was
ever can be more justly called intolerable than the condition
during all that time I was in ; when so entirely cut off from all
correspondence that I had not left me an active part in it.
Nor could I more know how to give your lordship and my
mother news of myself than I knew how to get it of yourselves,
although at Vienna I wrote, being told I had a chance. But I
fear it is almost as impossible that a letter should go thence, as it
is absolutely that it should go from any other of the parts of
Germany I passed through, without the help of a correspondent
in Holland or Flanders to receive them there, such as your lord
ship knows by my former letters has been unprovided, having
no other but him in France, through whose hands was the only
way thought of for the convenience of letters, when these late
revolutions were unexpected, and when only I did not dream of
the passage of France being blocked up for me in my return. It
should have been the cause of my visiting another, and so large
a portion of Europe, and by the necessity I should find myself in
of going back through a great part of Germany, I should have
been engaged to have made a journey through the heart of that
country. A journey so frightful in the very idea that, as greatly
as my curiosity is raised, and my desires grown towards my
improvement in the knowledge of mankind, of the variety of
nature in its other works, and of more of the countries of these
nearer parts of our world, yet I confess I was often so daunted
at the object (such as it was set out to me by those whom by my
experience I could now justify to have spoken without hyperbole),
voluntarily I believe, indeed, I should have hardly embraced the
resolution, not though the reward that was before my eyes for
what I should undergo were the sight of more of the most
famous cities, the seats of the great actions of the late ages,
of countries productive of so many rarities, of that empire whose
constitution has made it formerly in the united force of its
princes so formidable, and of more courts, and those the most
considerable of Europe. But now, thank heavens, first for the
cause of this last and greatest piece of my travel, our late purge
from those promoters of the interest that was to have enslaved
us to the horridest of all religions and to the service of the
Letters. 277
usurpations and treacheries of that neighbouring crown that has
aimed so long at the subjection of all Europe. I would have
gone as far as round the world out of my way (although to have
been without the profit of it) to have found at my return
my country freed from such a distemper that had so long hung
about it and had got so fast hold. In the next place am I
pleased that since by this happy occasion that made France too
hot for us, the intended course of my return by Marseilles and
Toulon along the southern parts of that country, and so up the
river Loire, was cut off, and that my way home was through
Germany, that I made a bold sally into the body of the
country, with the resolution not to go so far through it as I
should have been obliged without seeing what was of worth in
it. So making my compass but a little wider, I saw of Germany
what ought to be seen. If your lordship has received my letter
from Vienna, you have heard of my journey from Venice thither,
and what remarks I could give your lordship in such a piece of
paper. I was very happy in the advantage I had to be there
just before the opening of the campaigns, when all the great men
and officers in the Emperor's service were there met from all
parts to advise and to receive instructions for the management
of the war, the separation of their commands, and the division of
the forces between Hungary and the Rhine. I stayed there two
days more than the time I had allotted for that court, and except
for the mourning that I was forced to make, in which they
were there very deep, the civilities I had there would have
tempted me to have stayed longer. There is no need one finds
of the language of the country, French and Latin being so much
known and used, but especially the first, and Italian is spoken
from the Emperor down to the guards. I left Vienna the 19th
of April, new style ; since then I have passed through a long
tract of countries that have afforded me such variety of scenes
that I will not attempt to make your lordship any description of
here, especially since I hope so soon to be with you. I will
content myself to tell your lordship only that I passed through
the rest of Austria, and also through Moravia, a fine country, but
that bears such marks of a friend as one would hardly distinguish
from those that an enemy leaves behind him, and even as bad a
one as the Turk or Tartar, but it seems there is little difference
278 Letters.
'twixt them and the Poles whether a country has them as friend
or enemy if they but come within it. Here it was that the
Polish army passed and repassed in their return from the succour
of Vienna, where they did no other service but to help off with
the biggest part of the plunder, and then quarrel that they got
no more. We partook in the sufferance of these poor people,
whom they spared nothing to but their lives on their return,
for from linen, bedding, and bedsteads to knives and trenchers
there was nothing (since they spoiled or carried off all) left
renewed in all that country that bears resemblance of any such
thing. As for bedding or linen, most of the other countries we
passed afterwards were never so happy as to have had them. And,
indeed, for our lying we had been pretty well weaned from beds
before we got to Vienna, but afterwards clean straw grew a delicacy,
and we were contented in a seven or eight days' journey every
night to lie promiscuously among the rest of the creation, the
tame beasts of cottage ; and I assure my lord, when a barn or a
cock-loft was found for our night's lodging, we thought ourselves
fortunate that night. Out of Moravia we went into the kingdom
of Bohemia, and stayed at Prague two days. This is one of the
biggest cities I ever saw. The country is a mighty fine one,
a rich soil and full of silver and copper mines, some of which
they still work, but with pains and expense little more than
equivalent. I need not describe to your lordship how miserable
the people are, after I tell you the number of Jesuits that are
amongst them. In Prague they reckon about 2000. I leave
your lordship to reflect on the condition of this poor place
under this swarm of such vermin, by the trial we have
had lately of a few of them only amongst us. Your lord
ship may imagine, perhaps, the ill-condition we had been in
if fallen into their hands, for this country was their conquest
from an established strict profession of the pure Protestant
religion. From Bohemia we went to Dresden, but the Elector of
Saxony's court having come from thence (where its chief residence
is) to Derplitz, a little town within the Emperor's dominions
in Bohemia, where the Elector had come to take the waters
and baths, we went thither first, and from thence we came to
Dresden, in Saxony, which belongs to that Elector, and one
of the prettiest towns I ever saw, in the fineness of its situation
Letters. 279
and the gentleness of its building. The palace afforded me
noble sights. But it is for Berlin, the Elector of Brandenburg's
Court, that since I have spoken of places I should, speaking rather
but a word on all the rest, have reserved a side for this, where
greatness and goodness meet to such a degree in the persons of
the Elector and his Princess, where, with so much policy, power,
martial discipline, and temper, and amidst such splendour and
magnificence, there reigns so much justice, sincerity, and virtue,
in a manner I thought unknown at a Court. It may very well,
indeed, come into competition with any Court of Europe after
Versailles for state and majesty ; for the extent of his dominions
and the number of his forces are as great as those of some
crowned heads. The countries that the Emperor possessed were
esteemed not more considerable than his before these late
conquests in Hungary. The troops of the Elector are certainly
the best soldiers in the Empire. Nor was it without malice that
they were so exposed at the siege of Buda ; and there was more
in it than the common politics of throwing the greatest dangers
on allies. These were Protestants and such as now they find
zealous for the interest of their fellows. They have been
instrumental in our delivery by their union with our King
when Prince of Orange, who had in his service some of their
best men, that were lent him for the glorious expedition. They
have generously broken with the French without hearing of any
propositions for their private interest and advantage. They
have already this year had an encounter, in which they cut off
handsomely eight or nine hundred, a beginning that I hope will
soon be followed by more considerable advantages when England
is able to do its part on the common enemy. The Elector was
extremely kind to me. He had me at his table with him the
three days which he kept me there above the single day I had
designed for that place, because resolved to redouble my pace. This
was because our reports were that there would be a dispute yet
on our continent, which I should be sorry to be absent from now
so near home if it should happen, as God prevent, and which I
am now satisfied will not be, nor the dispute so long in Ireland,
till I arrive in my country, as I am coming with all speed, and
hope to be there in twelve days. I was persuaded to wait here
one post by the assurance that I should hear it then confirmed
280 Letters.
that a convoy of two or three men-of-war were set sail for this
place, which I should have embraced as a happy occasion : and
might have set me in four or five days from hence in England
with safety, through the seas that are not yet cleared of the
French pirates.
To-morrow I go for Amsterdam. It will be, in spite of my
teeth, an eight days' journey. When I am there I have but a
little arm of sea to cross and I am with your lordship. I am
forced, notwithstanding the leisure I have had to write this long
letter, to end abruptly, for my time has betrayed me. So let
me only entreat your lordship and my mother, with my usual
fervency, to believe that still, with all love, sincerity, and affection,
I am, and must be to my last breath, your dutiful son,
A. ASHLEY.
My love from your lordship's own mouth and my mother's
to my brothers and sisters, with your interests in them to
persuade them that I am their kind affectionate brother.
I will beg your lordship leave to present here my services
to Mr. Williams. I had intended him a letter of the same size
with your lordship's here, but I am surprised with the post hour
that hurries me away with this.
TO HIS FATHER.
ST. JONK'S, July, 1689.
In my brother Maurice's concern I am to tell your lordship,
that the result of my continual search, inquiry, and farther
study, and of my advising with those able men that were
mentioned in your hearing, and of others in the same capacity, is
to confirm me in my own sentiments on this occasion, which I,
in short, did explain before your lordship and my mother. And
since I shall be here obliged to reduce it into a little order, I will
beg your lordship's attention.
Here is a young man (which title only his stature and
growth would give him), come to that age that should be called
his years of discretion. To make him a scholar he has been
entirely committed to the breeding of a school. For the sake of
this, all other advantages have been quitted or waived, except
Letters. 281
those that prepare and fit for company and conversation, and
that of the outward carriage — the arts both of body and mind
that are necessary to admittance amongst the better rank of
people, and such improvements as were not practically to be
given him at that college, or could be expected should grow up
with him there. Yet, indeed, to such a measure are they here
lost, and into such a contrary extreme do we find him fallen, as
would make one hesitate, whether so dearly one would have even
purchased what was expected. But then, all that which is called
good breeding is not only totally lost in him, but the end for
which these advantages have been has advisedly been neglected ;
that part, that main part, I should call it, of his education,
for which all the rest have been purposely omitted,
this is failed and has come as yet to nothing. The seven
improving years of his life have been sacrificed at Winchester,
and all given up for Latin and Greek, and he is so far from
understanding the first that he can neither make nor construct a
sentence ; besides that, in any other sort of reading he has no
manner of tincture, sure, nor, as your lordship saw, can he be
brought to relish so much as a piece of Sir Walter Raleigh, or
your English Chronicle, a life in Plutarch, or any such pleasant
and easy story. Why, then, your lordship sees that from all
that is necessary, so everything that may be called a want
in a young gentleman's education, all is entirely lost in him, and
he is utterly a stranger thereto. There is nothing left to be
lost in him, unless he were to be brought to lose some ill qualities
that have grown up in the void that others have left, for here
has been an acquisition indeed. It is impossible but some
example should lead him ; a very young life is formed after it,
and there is but the good and the bad, so if the first be forsaken,
the consequence you know. Besides that, at Winchester1 I can
tell your lordship it is only those that study and are diligent,
and scarcely they, too, that escape that mother vice of drinking
— the predominant of the place; where the punishment of it
would be worse than insignificant among the scholars unless
the reformation were made, or began at least, amongst the
1 This description of the school at Winchester by Lord Ashley
has an increased interest because he had himself previously attended it.
282 Letters.
reformers, for whilst the example remains amongst the superiors,
I leave any one to judge of what efforts the correction of it
is likely to prove amongst the youth. However, I should not
desire to speak this out to your lordship, for I should be loth
to draw Winchester College about my ears for telling these tales
out of school, but your lordship has heard, I believe, what that
so much esteemed Bishop of Oxford said of their sister, New
College — that Palmer was the only sober man of it ; though, for
my own part, I think his lordship might have spared his reflection,
for I believe the numbers were little more than proportionable
through most of the other colleges.
But not to go from my matter, I will tell your lordship that
as to my brother, my fears are that all the evil he has acquired
in his conversation is not only clownishness, nor a practice of
idleness, that worst habitude he has contracted. Without
examining him too severely, or relating what particularly I have
observed or have been informed of, I would only offer to your
lordship to reflect on the change of his temper from what it was
a year or two ago. Whether that perfect good nature, that
trusty sincere plain dealing, disinterest and without craft, and
that benign bookish temper, whether all this has continued in
him. Where are all the marks of those mighty improvements
that must have been produced in him, if it had continued but in
any measure ? Whether or not your lordship finds that there
be now in his temper some contraries too observable ; something
of a surliness and a rugged conversation, not so open, free, or
true-hearted, or so free from design, pique, and little equivocation
and trick ; and whether all the. bookish inclinations have not had
a severe check in him. When one sees now these years that by
the computation of the time were to have produced such a
different one, so great a change of nature as this cannot have
been worked but with the corruption of his mind, and by
untoward notions that have got into him by the means of his
idle company, that have been able to get such a victory over
a natural temper. This is the briefest account I can make your
lordship of my brother Maurice's condition. If it be a just one,
and that by what pains I have given myself I conceive it rightly,
I should then be capacitated to give a right judgment of what
remains in this case to be done for his good. If a physician be
Letters. 283
able to advise when he thoroughly understands the nature
of the distemper, I could wish truly it were in this case that
is now my employment, as the proverb makes it in theirs,
that a disease once known is half cured, as then, I will
venture to say, I should have made a very fair progress before
this time.
The first distinction one would make in the education of
a younger brother in respect of his fortune in this world is by
what must serve to one of the two distinctions of gownsman or
swordsman. Under the first denomination come all that have a
dependence on or relation to either law or divinity ; under the
other all that have the same regard to the court or camp. The
latter have so near a relation to one another that whatever need
the first stands in, so of the other, as in the camp there is little
success to be expected in matters of advancement, but by the
means of the Court ; and a good soldier shall do but little in the
raising himself if he be a bad courtier.
The sea-breeding I bring not in here, for if I were to do it
I must enlarge upon my distinctions ; and that of a merchant
will not come under this, as I have set it, being neither
properly a gownsman nor swordsman, nor has any education
necessary to prepare him for his trade but a good hand and
arithmetic, for languages he learns with his trade in his
apprenticeship. The expensive education of an academic is
just for that of a swordsman for court or camp, and destructive
and ruinous in regard of all other education I have named.
Schools, first, and then Universities and Inns of Court, are the
beaten roads of those advancements that belong to the second
part of the division. And for Latin, besides the accomplishment
of gentlemen, it is absolutely necessary to every considerable
station and almost every office (except within the camp), as well
in the pulpit, as on the Bench. This one single, easy, pleasant
language has been the stumbling block in my brother's fortunes,
and this must be got over by my brother Maurice, or he must
do as my brother John, and apply either to sea-serving or to
merchant's affairs.
Now, till he has his Latin, neither the University nor Inns
of Court are for him. How to do then for this Latin. Try him
at the old place ? Let him in for his other seven years ? Or,
284 Letters.
which would be just as profitable, set him to another school, as
my brother John was when just in his circumstances ? At home
with a governor to himself or a whole college of them, if he
were to have them, would be still worse than all this. Then
here comes the difficulty — whither will you send him ? And to
state more than a difficulty (for I look upon it as an impossi
bility), how will you then order it, with good assurance of his
advantage and safety, to place him out without the expense of
one person to himself, that must overlook and must be able to
give an account of every hour of his diversions as well as of
his studies ? Without which I shall apprehend him to be but
slightly prepared against the dangers that threaten him, and
shall conceive but faintly how this Latin is likely to be got down
with him. I must own to your lordship I think this but
exposing him to a quicker and more certain ruin to send him
anywhere from you into the world, but under the guard of one
that you can confide in and one that has a capacity and industry
to get him the quickest over his Latin into the other parts of
learning that but by this he is not capable of. There is no
course you can put him in that you can have any hopes of his
doing well in, or that one can dare advisedly trust him to,
without this. Therefore, that which came originally and purely
from your lordship, and what I have since so maturely con
sidered, I cannot but applaud our happiness; that a person
should be immediately offered, one of whose integrity and worth
I can say more of than of any man's, as I know him better than
I can say I know any man, and one in whom that character
above required is so fully verified, and one that I can now
oblige to undertake this work that so nearly concerns both me
and my family.
There remains now the determination of what place you
will send him to, where Mr. Denoune1 may be helped by the
greatest advantage and freed from the greatest obstacles in this
work. I have already named beyond sea to your lordship, so
1 Mr. Daniel Denoune, whom Lord Ashley here recommends as a
tutor for his brother Maurice, had been his own companion in the Con
tinental travel from which he had so recently returned. He was a
Scotchman, and is described by the Fourth Earl as a " very ingenious,
honest person."
Letters. 285
that I need not cautiously prepare you to receive the thing
without surprise. But I will tell in short only: that there a
governor's authority over him, his power and influence on him,
will be much greater than it is possible it should; be here. He
has him there in a world where he can only follow him as he
leads, and begins with [him upon a new bottom. There he will
be removed from the danger of his flatterers, his companions
equally (in age, I mean, far have they been from that in quality),
his familiars and all that sort of gang, the efforts of which kind
of society, as they are usually, so they will be in him : an aver
sion to his learning, a pleasure and a habitude in idleness, which
is soon followed by things that are worse ; then a disregard of
his true interest and improvement, and a contempt of his
influence and his precepts.
To this I will add that at Utrecht, which is the place I would
for the present send him, they will live cheaper than they can
in England, and, besides, the neatness and pleasantness and
healthiness of the place ; the better degree of the people are very
gentle. It has also one of the finest universities that is, where
he will have before his eyes another example than is at either
of ours, and here at this University Mr. Denoune was and
hath taken his doctor's degree. But I have spent my spirits as
well as my paper, and have only enough left of such to tell your
lordship and my mother that I am your dutiful son,
A. ASHLEY.
TO MR. TAYLOR, OF WEYMOUTH.
ST. G.'s, February 16th, 1689-90.
Sir, — After my acknowledgments and thanks to Sir John M.
for the concern he showed for my interest on the report of my
standing, I think myself particularly obliged to pay them in no
small measure to yourself, Sir John having imparted to me the
considerations you had for me.
I think I may say, and doubt not but it will appear within
some time, that it was not on ill grounded reasons that I took the
resolution which I owned at the first news of the Parliament's
286 Letters.
Dissolution,1 not to stand for this next ; though at present I can
do nothing more than protest to you and those other of my
friends who designed me for one of their representatives, that it
has been grounded on considerations and principles far opposite to
the want of zeal in my country's service, whatever may be other
wise thought of me by some who know me not well, nor will yet
a while know my reasons. When the message came to me hither
from you I was then gone into Wiltshire to prevent some gentle
men, who were able to have promoted my interest there towards
being a member of this Parliament, supposing my intentions had
been to have stood for it. And since, by having been absent at
that time, I lost that occasion of returning my acknowledgments,
I will desire the favour of you to acquit me to the Mayor and
those other of the Corporation who have so voluntarily obliged
me, and to assure them from me that had not I before taken
and declared my resolution, I should now meet their offers with
greater satisfaction than any others whatsoever, and as indeed
they are a greater invitation to me than anything besides ; so I
repine more on this account that I am so necessarily obliged not
to stand at all for this Parliament. But that, however, I live in
no small hopes of showing them (at some time) the desire I have,
and the preference I give to their particular service as well as
that of being not unworthy of the esteem they have shown
to have for me.
I ought to reserve something yet more particular for your
self in respect of your worthy sentiments for our family, through
the memory of my grandfather, which has been a thing so almost
universally ungratefully dealt with in this nation that I mark
the vindication of it in any one more as a noble instance of
generosity than of kindness to myself. But as for this, I only
hope that by Sir John M.'s means, or some other way, I may ere
1 Parliament was dissolved on the 27th January, 1690, and a new
one was summoned to meet on the 20th of March. Although Lord
Ashley was still a minor, he would have been eligible to a seat in the
House of Commons, as it was not until 1696 that an Act (7 and 8
William III, c. 25, § 8) was passed disqualifying minors from election.
He preferred, however, to devote several years to private study, and
did not therefore enter Parliament until 1695, when he was returned
as a member for Poole.
Letters. 287
long have the occasion to be well acquainted with you, at which
time I doubt not but to show you fully what I now assure you
of, that I am, sir, your most obliged friend and humble servant,
A. A.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
ST. JONES'S, January the 21st, 1692.
MR. LOCKE, — I write to you in a cover purposely, that you
may be assured I mean not this as a letter, or give it to you for
such ; therefore I could find in my heart to take no notice at all
that I had received any letter from you, as I did a post ago.
Indeed, were I now otherwise in every respect well fitted
to write, I should by this one thing be hindered from saying
anything either agreeable or diverting, or in any measure
answerable to the least part of what you have written. You
may know that that which is here meant is the matter enclosed,
of which I spoke to you when last with you, and some time
before.
The subject of it you may allow to me to be a melancholy
one, therefore I beg you excuse me here for anything farther,
only let me have your advice the soonest you can, and about his1
and my brother's2 coming over, each of them on their several
accounts — the one that of his health, the other that of his
education. You know all the circumstances that relate to each,
and without troubling you to give your reasons, I should be glad
to hear only your determination in that point particularly.
I beg I may be remembered to my lady,3 as one who has
all the respect for her in the world. — Dear Mr. Locke, I am
entirely yours, ASHLEY.
[Address: To Mr. Locke, at Sir Francis Masham's, at Gates.]
1 Mr. Denoune, the tutor. 2 Maurice Ashley.
3 Lady Francis Masham was the brilliant and devoted friend of
John Locke. She was a daughter of Dr. Ralph Cudworth, the
Cambridge theologian and moralist, and the second wife of Sir Francis
Masham, a country gentleman, who resided at Oates, in Essex. In
their home Locke lived from 1691 until his death in 1714.
288 Letters.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
3rd March, 1692.
Do not expect, sir, that I should thank you for all your
compliments to me on my coming of age.1 It was no more than
what I needed to make me relish the pleasure of that circum
stance at that time, as I should do, and so as a man in reason
should be supposed to have the means to do, if he have not hard
luck indeed. I tell you I could not have abated you one ace of
a compliment, since only those of your fashioning, amongst so
many others as I have had, are only able to give me the least
liking of myself. The rest, as extraordinary as I can assure you
they have been, have not yet been able so much as to make me
not repine at the having left behind me three such lovely years
as are counted by our young men from eighteen to this age, and
by the women a little under at the same proportion from sixteen
to the confines of twenty, which begins to sound sadly, and
which is a kind of a summer solstice where motion is stopped,
or at least rendered imperceptible for some while. But to tell
you a plainer reason yet than this why I do not think myself
obliged to you for your compliments, it is because they were
due to me. And on what score, think you ? I'll tell you
instantly. But in the meantime now, were I but to know
the truth, what a fine turn should I see here on a sudden in your
opinion ! What pretty things are you thinking of this vain
creature that devours compliments at a rate that never was
heard of ! Say seriously, do you not begin to wish you had
given them slower and with a little more deliberation? I
warrant you yes. . . . But not to frighten you more than is
convenient, nor to punish your rashness too dreadfully, I'll tell
you then in what sense it is that I say all these compliments
were no more than due to me. Thus it is. You forsooth had
forestalled all my happiness and anticipated all the joy that I
was to have conceived by right in the day of my manhood. You
used me like one that should tell me the plot of a play, or the
latter end of a romance, in the middle of it, and so spoil the con
clusion, where the pleasure is to be. You were used to treat me
1Lord Ashley was born February 26th, 1671, and consequently
became of age in February, 1692.
Letters. 289
at that rate, dealt with me so like a friend in every strictest
relation, seemed to seek my company for my company's sake, and
conferred with me upon subjects as though you were really
better for not being alone. Now, all this from one like you, from
a man so unvulgar as you, I leave anybody of good sense to
judge if it were not enough to put any young fellow beside
himself, who had his vanity turned the way that mine ever was ;
and if this were not fully enough to make him miscount himself
a man before his time. Thus had you seasoned me so as to leave
me not the least matter to raise joy out of; but enough to have
answered any of my congratulations with the least feature of
gladness, or with any mark of satisfaction on my side. But that
in consideration I suppose of the wrong you had done me, this
letter of yours came most seasonably, and just made amends by
giving me some additional pleasure at that time above what was
ordinary ; which otherwise I could not have had upon my own
score, and by giving me some good thoughts of myself that I
never had before. For I think I might say that if other people
by their compliments could have made me apprehend myself
something that was above a mere boy ; you by yours could make
me imagine myself something beyond a common man such as
now pass in the world for such. So, ending with the same con
tinued air of vanity with which I began, in which, however, you
have the chief hand, I rest just as I was, for if I could be, I
would be more, your constant friend and faithful servant,
ASHLEY.
Monr. La Treille has come out of Mr. Vain's family some
time, and is now with us here in town, where I never fail to see
him once a day. I have room now to say none of those compli
ments you pretend, only my plain humble service to my lady.
Sir John Cropley is yours. I know not how to send for the
puppy. Let me know.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
LONDON, March the 2Gth, 1691 [2].
ME. LOCKE, — I am sorry that my brother's arrival with
poor Mr. Denoun should have given me such business as has
hindered me writing to you the last post or two upon the subject
w
290 Letters.
you wrote me ; and that my sudden journey into the country
with him and the business I have now to despatch should here
hinder me from writing what I would do and from speaking
my sentiments on this head as distinctly as I would do had I
more time. I should have done very ill indeed to have left you
in suspense ever so little a while ; but that I did not, for Mr. Clerk
assured me he would inform you again more particularly what
were my thoughts and resolution, and what my power was in
the matter. All that I shall here say is, that I desire you, as to
what relates to me, to think that in the honour (I mean the
fidelity and justice) of the family, you have now a full assurance
of whatever you could have assurance of before, and that your
security is as good for whatever my grandfather,1 in the name
of his family, has signified a promise of. During my life,
therefore, and whilst I am master of any proportion of what
was his, you have that to your interest that is equivalent to
what you could have were he (as I wish him) alive. And for
what is to come after my life, I shall take all the care you can
expect, and that you now propose, that you may have security
yet farther. I can now indeed do nothing, for I have nothing ;
and I, who hold all by bounty and courtesy, cannot plead or ask
a stronger tie for another's interest than that which I must be
contented with for my own. So that if there be a danger for you
should all pass into the hands of him that is next to me without
stopping ever any part of it in mine, it is a danger which all my
power cannot divert from you, for I can do no more hereafter
than now or heretofore, if I come never to possess or hold any
thing from my godfather more than I do now or have heretofore.
I need not say I wish for you, after what I have said,
because it is plainly no more than wishing for myself, as much
at least as that by the order of nature I may enjoy a heritage
after those who had place and were born before me, and before
those who are after and were born since me. I can say that
this occasion has taught me to go farther in wishing than I used
to do : for considering myself only, those matters are so indifferent
to me that I never make any wish at all about them.
1 The First Earl of Shaf tesbury had bestowed upon Locke in
1674 an annuity of £100 a year for life.
Letters. 291
In concluding, I only tell you that I hope you will be so far
from doubting of me in what honour would call me to perform,
that you will rather expect from me much more yet in all
concerns than what that merely would oblige me to in your
behalf. Since you are sure of such a place in my friendship (if
I may use such a big-looked phrase) as I think scarce any can
have besides yourself, which may make you compute always
with a right estimate how much and after what rate I am
your friend and servant, ASHLEY.
In deep earnest I here warn you that if (as you threaten)
you renounce a certain office that you some time since assumed
for me and acquitted yourself faithfully of (viz., that of the
conveyance of my respects and services to Lady Masham), I
solemnly renounce all friendly offices for you and all the fine
things I ever said. Therefore pray do something extraordinary
this time to atone.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
RICHMOND, 7th July, 1692.
MR. LOCKE, — The giving characters of people is, in my
opinion, not only a very dangerous undertaking, but a task,
too, of some labour and hardship, when besides the strict con
sideration of the person spoken of, so much must be had in
relation to the persons addressed, and that after one has formed
one's own judgment with much pains, there is still so much
remaining in the nicety that there must be in delivering of it
to others, who perhaps have such different notions and under
stand even the same things so differently from what one's self
does. But I have not this part of the trouble with you which I
should have with others, and since you desire of me to write you
of Mr. La Treille's l character, I can say well enough what is
necessary in the little time that I have here allowed me, since
it is you that inquire.
You well know what it is that reconciles me to the
acquaintance and friendship of such as I chance to meet with
in the world : when I find in any one a concern for somewhat
1 A tutor evidently desired by Mr. Locke for young Masham.
292 Letters.
more in nature than what is merely [called oneself, or has
immediate relation to it; and that they carry their reason
free and open, with no excepted places, which endure no
examination and that will not bear the calling in question;
the first is good nature, the other is good sense. It being
my luck to find as much as this in the gentleman now mentioned,
with that which I esteemed a good insight into what should
or did employ mankind, and a good understanding (as I thought)
in what was best and most satisfactory of all that (by which
I understand that which frames and polishes society). By this
means I grew into his acquaintance and gained that habit of
conferring reason with him, and looking together often into
those things that molested or benefited mankind and ourselves ;
that from this commerce he became to me one of those whom
I most acceptably saw and loved chiefly to converse with in
writing or discourse, which I have almost constantly done with
him this year or two as hardly with any so besides. How
far this may be a bias in my judgment of him in other parts
and in relation to other things, I cannot say myself ; but would
wish you to view as narrowly as possible, that if I deceive
myself I may not at least deceive you, or others by you.
As to his being a governor for a young man, all I can say is
that I have thought him so much the fittest of any I knew (and
you know what a general acquaintance I have had occasion
to have in that form of men), that when I expected my brother
should have been left without a governor, by the loss of poor
Mr. Denoun (my long acquaintance and former fellow-traveller),
I then designed Mr. La Treille, if he had been free, for that place,
not balancing at all between him and any other. He is extremely
well versed in humanity, and is in my opinion an extremely
good judge in all polite learning and in the politer manners and
customs of the world, though I understand not by that the
particular way that some men have of setting themselves off,
which depends not so much on experience or insight, as in a
happy constitution that breeds assurance, the possession or want
of which does more than can be imagined almost in the opinion
we beget of ourselves in others. I know not what disadvantage
it may be reckoned to Mr. La Treille, the having left him the
perfect use but of one eye. I did not myself reckon upon it
Letters.
more than as a danger to himself, he having nothing for reserve,
and the running double the risk of becoming blind by any
accident that another man runs, who has both eyes well and has
another in store if any mischance happen to one. For with what
he has at present he does things (and even those that require
greatest accuracy of sight, as in writing and reading) more
perfectly than I can do with what I have got of sight more than
he. Having told you these particulars, you, or indeed any one,
may draw my judgment of what remains as to his integrity,
temper, and all of that kind. For how should I stand thus with
him, if I were not persuaded myself that he had of that kind
what was better than was ordinarily met with ? So I need say
no more, only I should add indeed that I never knew any such
success, above once or twice in my life, in the teaching of a
young body as I have known in Mr. La Treille: and for the
matter of overcoming that mighty giant language, with youth,
the Latin. Nor is there any great mystery there to wonder
at, when a man has diligence and good humour, and only dares
but to contradict the precepts of some, whose trade is teaching,
by postponing certain abstract notions those gentlemen have
framed on language, not very aptly calculated, I imagine, to
young heads, till such a time as they are a more natural and
speedier way made masters of the language they learn : at which
time it is easy for them in one fortnight to understand (as much
as they arc ever to be understood) all the parts of that science.
I do not speak this without living instance myself ; for this
you know was what, after eight years in a free school (and that
one of the best, too — Winchester), recovered a brother of mine
in two years afterwards from knowing hardly anything at all of
any language but his country's, to be master completely of more
than one language, besides other things that took up much time
in the while. But I have run on here I know not how. How
shall I excuse myself ? 'Tis to Mr. Locke I write. That is truly
a very natural excuse, for it is the real reason; and there is
nothing surer than that I should have served nobody else so.
But is not this very injurious, that when you know how little
guilty I am of long letters to other people, you should be the
single person for whom I become tedious ? — I here say nothing
for myself, but that I am very much yours, ASHLEY.
294 Letters.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
LONDON, the 6th, 1693.
MR. LOCKE, — I have stayed now, this night, to the utmost
hour of the post that I might give you, if I could, a positive
assurance of my coming by Tuesday's coach. But having had
no answer yet from those whom I expected this night in town to
end my business, and there being therefore yet no places taken,
I cannot possibly conclude as I would. However, that you may
see what concern I take in this affair, I resolve to pronounce it
now to you, that I will come ; and unless by a messenger on
purpose you hear on Monday that something has made it
impossible, Mr. Popple and I shall be ready on Tuesday to be
taken up by you where the coach sets us down.
I have no time to say anything farther. You will have no
reason to remind me more of my word. I am sure already I
have acted beyond it. Not only an extraordinary regard and
service for you, but a zeal somewhere else, inspires me to do
things beyond what I am only obliged to by a promise. Let
that be the chief part of the return you make me, to represent
that zeal as well as you think it deserves. And if you let my
Lady Masham know with what respect I always think of her, it
will be the way to make me, if possible, with farther obligation
than I have, your sincere friend and humble servant,
A. ASHLEY.
If Sir Francis Masham be at Gates, I beg my very humble
service.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
ST. GILES'S, 28th May, 1694.
I ought to be extremely satisfied with anything that I have
done, or any accident happening, that should be the occasion to
me of receiving any letter from you more than I should have
done. And I ought to be more than ordinarily satisfied with
any such thing at this time ; since, as my concerns have disposed
of me, I am not likely for a long time to receive any pleasure or
advantage of an acquaintance that I know so well how to value,
except only what is of this kind. I have too little hopes of
Letters. 295
seeing you here, ever to talk of them, till I have better
encouragement from you, or fresh ground from my own circum
stances to press you upon it. And without this I have nothing
else to depend upon but the hearing from you, since I shall
hardly now be able to see you, I know not when, in town, and
far less at a certain place 1 besides that I have been at, which,
though not so big, is worth a thousand such towns. I wish I
deserved the character you give me, and could willingly flatter
myself upon what you say of me ; but that I should make your
opinion of me yet more groundless, and have no sort of worth at
all, if, for as much as lay in me, I suffered you to continue
so much deceived. And were it not that I should only look
affected in what I said, and so give you occasion to say more of
a kind that I am apt to like too well, I would^honestly show you
that I was not, nor could be, of that consideration or worth in
the world which you make me to be. If, such as I am, I prove
to be yet rather better than several of our patrician blood, I arn
sorry for them, and for the commonwealth I live in, that it should
be so bad with them. The comparison indeed seems to give me
some advantage : but what it can amount to, I very well know
is only, not as if I should do more good, but a little less mischief
in the world than might be expected from one of that number I
make.
I could wish too (for I find you have set me a-wishing) that
in this absence my letters were able to give you that satisfaction
you seek in them, and could be worth the esteem you place upon
them. For my own part, I know myself to be, in this province
of society (if I may use such an expression), so very unapt a
creature, and so little able to sustain a part, that I should be
ashamed to invite any ordinary person, and much less you, to
come into so unfair, so unequal a party ; nor could I be pleased
with myself that I had designedly engaged you in a commerce
where there would be nothing reciprocal, and oftenest a mere
load and trouble sent in exchange for an advantage and an
entertainment. Indeed in another sort of commerce I never
apprehended so much as this. In free conversation, by the
advantages of being face to face, the suiting and timing of
1 Gates.
296 Letters.
things, and a great many helps besides, one may be, with a little
plain sense and a good deal of honesty, not only of some use, but
entertaining enough in the way of friendship. But I, who am
never very well satisfied with what I speak, should be very sorry
to be obliged, for an agreeable present made me, to return so bad
a one as a bundle of such thought as mine, and an essay of my
own, of such a genius, such invention, such a style as mine. —
I find, if I go on, I shall do as bad as what I pretend to be
displeased with. I will only say one thing more, which I am but
seldom displeased with saying, and never but pleased with solidly
showing, that I am your sincere friend and humble servant,
A. ASHLEY.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
ST. GILES'S, September 8th, 1694.
MR. LOCKE, — Neither my business, nor diversions, nor
studies, which you mention, are, or can be, such as hinder me
from reflecting often, and as I ought, on the advantage I have
in being thought of, as you tell me I am, at Gates. My businesses
and diversions do not take me up as they were used ; nor are
they followed by me with that heat which with other people
they generally are; nor am I any one hour so much in them
as not to have my mind much more elsewhere than upon them,
having got a business into my head which by nobody else is
looked upon as a business, but with me is instead of all other
business and diversion, that of learning how to be an honest
man and a friend. Other people may be born to these qualities.
It is my misfortune to be such as that I cannot but esteem
thought, exercise, and a continual application to be necessary
in this case for me.
You may imagine that I can hardly be so much as I speak
of employed in this, and not have those people in my thoughts
whom I am forced to distinguish from the rest of the world
whenever I think upon the subjects of friendship, worth, and
love of virtue and of mankind. As for my studies, since they
all lie towards this business that I speak of, all that I learn
by them, or chiefly strive to learn, is, what mankind has been
heretofore in former ages, and under former revolutions, that
Letters. 297
I may guess the better at what they are, and may be expected
to be. in such a turn of an age and time as is this present one.
The poor stock of knowledge which I pick up is all about this
single matter. Other notions than what are of this odd kind
I have not to communicate to you, which you desire of me, as
if I could have any that were of any worth to you. And as
for what my notions are, which in this way I gain, I must
beg your pardon for not communicating them. I might whisper
them in your ear, perhaps, or I might venture to trust another
person l near you with the impertinence of them, but they are
not at all fit for writing, nor to come in the way of other people.
They are either too ridiculously absurd, or too odiously true.
We have a refined, polite, and a delicious age; whatever
opposes what is established here is rude, barbarous, deformed;
and whatever has a contrary taste is contemptible. The standard
of good sense, of manners, pleasure, virtue, everything is here.
I acquiesce, being very safe in this : that whatsoever is thought,
or not thought, concerning me in this adored age, and by the
adored people in it, is likely to give me no great disturbance,
which saves a man a great deal of pains, if one considers what
employment this gives to other people. I would not have you
think that this, which I have said so perfectly by chance, was
said to place a mark of distinction upon the concern I show
for your friendship and good opinion, nor to give an advantage
to my way of receiving the favours of another person, which
I pretend to know so well how to value.
Whether I think little or think much of what is or ever
may be said of me, in a city or a court, amongst great people
or a crowd, this I am certain of : that I think very much upon
how I am and how I may be thought of at Gates, and it is
no small part of the aim and business of my present life to keep
and deserve that esteem I have got there, and to be more and
more that which I am taken for, when I am well looked upon by
those that are there. It is not, as you imagine, so new a thing
to me, or what I want so much to be acquainted with, how I
am several times thought of and in the good opinion of the lady
of the house. I have vanity enough to keep alive the remem-
1 Lady Masham.
298 Letters.
brance of what was once made to appear to me of that kind, and
to count upon it. I hardly need any new intimation of it,
though I can never hear of it so often as not to receive pleasure
every time. The marks I have already had of that esteem long
since has put it out of my power to doubt of it, because I am so
well persuaded that whatever that person would seem to be, they
really are ; and that any other part is unnatural to them, as
much as it is with other people not to say, upon every occasion
of that kind, much more than they think, which is one of the
chief reasons why I so much value everything in them, and
receive everything from thence with that regard. Though any
other body in my place would find out many more reasons that
would make a greater show than mine, and I am even satisfied
that in the real judgment of the world I should undervalue
my Lady Masham with my respect if I should say fully in what
manner it was grounded. Goodness and sincerity, and a great
many other things of that kind, would sound just as well as
good nature and simplicity; and I am afraid if I should speak
about a value for religion, and such thoughts about it and about
the liberty of mankind as I have known in my Lady Masham,
I should hardly be able to give it any turn that would make me
excusable to this age for commending a lady in that manner.
See what a hardship I am placed under, in my respect for one
that I can never think I show enough for, when at any time
I would endeavour to show a part !
But I have another more just exclamation to make, which
is : how horridly tedious I grow ! This is a fault my pen has,
worse yet a great deal than ever I discovered of my tongue,
and therefore I am forced to use it more slenderly. I beg you
to excuse me this time, and wish that of all this you were to
read no more than that I present my humble service to my
Lady Masham, and that I am, with a great deal of sincerity,
your friend and humble servant, A. ASHLEY.
My father1 is in a very good way of recovery, though he
yet keeps his bed. My brother2 presents you with his very
humble service. I should be extremely glad if you would
send the book which my Lady Masham has given me to
1 The second Earl of Shaftesbury. 2 Maurice Ashley.
Letters 299
Wheelock,1 in town, that he may send it to rne hither, for I
earnestly desire it as soon as possible.
I write this post to Wheelock, who is in town, to be sure
to have that ready which you spoke for. I hope soon to be
in that method that you shall never need to give yourself again
the trouble of speaking or writing a word on that account.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
LONDON, November 29th, 1694.
MR. LOCKE, — I know not whether it will be possible for me
to wait on my Lady Masham and visit you this season ; but this
I am sure of, I cannot possibly have more desire to do it than I
already have. I needed nothing to convince me that what good
I was able to do in the world, was better and more worthily
bestowed in serving a person or two, like some that live but in a
corner of Essex, than in serving of a crowd of such people as are
now making the great ado that is made in the world, and whom
I am now in the midst of, as my ill fortune has ordered it. The
greatest part of what I do in the world is not because I hope
anything, but because I think I must be doing. I can assure
you I do not act out of any friendship to the age, or to mankind,
such as they are at present. Were there no principle to engage
me to serve them, besides their own merit, besides their
characters, besides the opinion I had of them, and the esteem I
bore them, upon my word it would fare ill with them for
anything I were ever likely to do in their behalf, though in ever
so pressing an occasion. I fancy that I am not apt to make to
myself too nattering a picture of the world. And I believe that
whatever this public that you talk of is like to have of my
service, it will never have over much of my respect ; nor shall I
be apt to fall into any gross errors on that account. All I know
is, that there are some whom I have a real respect for ; and if I
were now at liberty to do what respect and inclination most led
me to, I should quickly show my forwardness to accept of the
invitation that is made me.
1 John Wheelock, steward at St. Giles's.
300 Letters.
If you believe my sincerity in this, you will make my
excuse for me; if otherwise, all I can say besides will signify
nothing whilst I am kept here, and can do no more than write.
But I have more confidence in you than this comes to, for if you
know this it is enough (and that I cannot doubt of) that I am,
very sincerely, your real friend and humble servant,
A. ASHLEY.
TO THOMAS STRINGER*
LONDON, February the I5th, 1695 [NJ3. 1696].
I will not trouble you any farther now, nor, indeed, have I
time. We have got a bill to be engrossed, which lays an
incapacity on the elector (as the late-passed Act does on the
elected) in case of corruption, meat, drink, &c., and which obliges
the Knights of the shire to have £500 a year, or the inheritance
of it, as freehold within the county, and a Burgess £200 a year
somewhere at least in England on the same terms. You could, I
believe, scarcely imagine with yourself who these are in the
world, or who they are in the House, who oppose this, and all
other such bills as this, might and main ; and who they are that
are condemned for flying in the face of the Government, as they
call it, by being for such things as these are, and pressing such
hard things on the prerogative or court. In short, you would
hardly believe that your poor friend that now writes to you has
sentence (and bitter sentence too) every day passing upon him
for going, as you may be sure he goes, and ever will go, on
such occasions as these, whatever party it be that is in or out
at Court, that is in possession of the places, and afraid of losing
their daily bread by not being servile enough, or that are out
of places, and think, by crossing the Court and siding with good
and popular things against it, to get into those places of profit
and management. No more. My kind service to Mrs. Stringer,
and my service too to your son. — I am, your sincere friend, &c.,
A. ASHLEY.
1 " His zeal in defence of liberty may be seen from his letter to
Thomas Stringer, Esq., a gentleman who had held office [as attorney
and secretary] under the Lord Chancellor Shaftesbury." — Birch.
Letters. 301
TO HIS MOTHER.*
Beginning of 1696.
MADAM, — Had it been my misfortune to have been led into
a behaviour ever so unbecoming me, or to have given you never
so just an occasion of offence, yet the consideration of that early
time my faults must have been committed in, when I knew
myself so little, and was of an age so little able either to judge or
to act right ; this, and the proofs your ladyship has since had of
my entire submission and willingness to do anything that may
regain me your favour, my earnest desire to mend whatever has
been amiss, and to atone for whatever you may have judged me
guilty of, or that I have failed — in all this, together with the
application that has been made for me by all those here whom I
have the happiness to be related to through you, and who have
had the goodness all of them to plead my cause for me — this, I
say, I might have expected would have been of sufficient weight
to have inclined your ladyship towards me, and have gained for
me, if not kindness and forgiveness, at least something in answer
to that sincerely dutiful and humblest application I have been so
long making to your ladyship.
But when I am as yet not conscious to myself of any one
action, purely my own, and which I myself am answerable for,
by which I have ever given your ladyship just offence, or
knowingly committed anything against my duty, or that may
have deservedly lost me anything of that exceeding great
kindness and affection you were once pleased to show and
profess for me — when I reflect on this, and find that after all
I have done and what has been done on my behalf, you continue
still the same to me, and your anger not at all lessened, so as
to have either more charity towards me or more regard to my
submission — this I confess is astonishing, but I must submit to
what God pleases. I thank Him that he has been so merciful
as to make me sensible of what it is to be a son, and what I
am to do as such. I trust in Him that He may one day also
give you the heart of a mother, and restore me to the good will
1 Born Dorothy Manners, daughter of John, eighth Earl of
Rutland.
302 Letters.
and blessing of a parent. In the meantime, give me leave to
renew again my offers of paying my duty and attendance with
that submission I intend. If I may have permission, since there
is nothing that I would not do, nor no private interest I would
not sacrifice willingly to convince your ladyship, and to show all
the world how much I am your ladyship's most humble, dutiful,
and obedient Son.
TO LORD RUTLAND, i
To MY UNCLE RUTLAND. April, 1696.
MY LORD, — I have been so long sensible of my unhappiness
in lying under your lordship's ill opinion, that though I
constantly endeavoured to make the best application I could to
your lordship, in the offer of the most respectful duty and
service, which I have continually preserved, yet I had not any
encouragement at all to hazard the making my application this
way to your lordship, or to hope that any letter might be
favourably received. But now lately I have learned from some
of your lordship's relations, that your lordship is inclined to have
more favourable thoughts of me, and though I was refused when
I made the offer of paying my duty the last year in waiting
upon you and my mother, I have now hopes of renewing that
offer, to be more kindly accepted.
If I had ever justly offended my mother, and had not atoned
for and repented of so ill an action, I might well deserve this or
any mark of your lordship's displeasure. But I solemnly protest
and can call God to witness that I know not as to that in what I
have erred, and if I have erred, nobody can more sincerely repent
of it and be willing to do more to deserve a pardon. Your lord
ship knows the application I have made to her, both by letter and
otherwise, both myself and by relations, and your lordship knows
how unsuccessful it has been with me. I must say I have done
all I can do, till your lordship is pleased to tell me what more,
for the rest of my mother's relations (whose direction I constantly
follow) can tell me nothing further. It is hard for a son to
1 John, 9th Earl of Rutland, born May 29th, 1638, created Duke,
29th March, 1703; and died 10th January, 1711.
Letters. 303
answer for whatever happens of difference betwixt a father and
a mother. I were unnatural if I did not do my utmost to
reconcile it. But I can no more be responsible for my father
towards my mother, than for my mother to my father, nor is one
more under my power than the other. God forbid I should be
able to say that either were subject to me. But in the most
favourable sense I am far from deserving that that should be
said for me as to my father, though it be not my business here
to complain. But this I am sure of, that before my mother
declared herself so incensed against me, I had more of that
influence over her than ever I had, or can pretend to have, over
my father. All that I can say is that I am not only ready to do
but will rejoicingly do anything that can be told me, and shall
count myself obliged for any such advice or assistance given me.
Whatever I have in the world (and it is but lately that I could
say I had anything) is at her service and always shall be ; whilst
I have anything she may command it, and where I have any
power she may command me in anything. If nothing from me
is able to prevail with her to think of her family, yet the case of
my sisters I should hope might, who as to their coming up in the
world, and what is necessary in that respect, are destitute of all
manner of assistance and support, and can only receive it from
my mother or some of her relations. I, for my own part, having
no other service in my power to do for them besides what relates
to their fortunes, in which I have done and shall do my best.
I beg your lordship's pardon for this long trouble, and am with
all respect your lordship's most
TO HIS MOTHER.
October 10th, 1696.
MADAM, — Though I have hitherto had so little success, yet
I can never cease repeating what I have done so often before ;
nor can anything discourage me from making my application to
your ladyship with the greatest humility. I can only say what
I have done before ; but what I shall now do with greater zeal if
possible. If there be anything by which I may ever merit your
favourable thought, or even regain your kindness, I humbly beg
304 Letters.
of you that you would let me know it. There is nothing upon
earth that I can give, nothing that I can part with, nor nothing
I can do which I shall repine at if it be a means to me to obtain
that happiness. It is long since that I have said that I would
no longer stand upon my justification in anything. If I have
formerly done it, I beg you would forgive me that too, as well
as whatever in my youth I may have offended in before I came
to years of discretion, or to that sense of my duty to you which
I thank God I now have. Had I had formerly at those years
the same serious sense which I now have of what that duty is, I
am confident I should have prevented your falling into dis
pleasure with me, and never have given you the least of those
occasions. They are now what I heartily mourn for, and call
God to witness that if ever I become so happy as once again to
be restored to your favour and affection, I shall count it above
all I can gain in this world. And I doubt not but that if you
could any way know my sentiments at this time, and know how
great a change is in me, you would not only allow me what I so
earnestly beg for (the leave to present myself to you and to
appear before you), but you would receive me with the
indulgence of a mother, and no longer think me an ill son, which
I am sure I no longer am to you, whatever I may have been at
any time before. It may I hope be some proof of this to tell
your ladyship that I have done all I am able with my father,
and have constantly spoken with all the earnestness that becomes
me in your interest. I now know and am satisfied that there is
no servant nor anything of that nature which he would not part
with on the account of seeing you. I obtained it from him
yesterday that he would give me leave to write to your ladyship
and present his love and service with my own duty. It is this
that has made me trouble your ladyship at this time, that I am
now obliged to be going from hence immediately because of the
Parliament.
If I may hope to hear in one line from your ladyship, or but
in any letter to any of my aunts or relations in town, I shall be
extremely thankful. I just hear you have been ill, but are
better. I sincerely thank God for your recovery, and am with
the greatest sincerity (and in the deepest sense of that misfortune
I lie under), your ladyship's, &c.
Letters. 305
TO HIS MOTHER.
November I4,th, 1696.
MADAM, — I have not only had the satisfaction of hearing
from the report of some of my friends that your ladyship had
more favourable thoughts of me, but I have now lately had the
happiness to have an instance of it under your own hand in a
letter which my Lady Cha worth was so kind as to communicate
to me.
I do assure your ladyship that notwithstanding it may
seem but little what your ladyship is pleased to show and allow
in favour of me, yet I value and esteem it as abundant, and am
abundantly thankful, and shall ever be so though I never receive
more, which yet I hope to live to deserve, and until I do deserve
will never ask. I shall never while I live attempt to justify
myself on anything that has been formerly, and shall never
claim the least regard from you but on the account of that
entire submission which I profess, and of what I may hereafter
perform.
I beg leave again and again to repeat this, that there is
nothing in the world which I would not do to demonstrate the
sincerity of that duty I profess, and that whatever I may have
ignorantly done, or been led to do, at any time when I had little
sense of anything, and at years in which I neither had nor could
be said to have discretion, I have now another sense of what
duty is, and of what becomes a son. There is no interest of
mine anywhere which I shall not make submit to this, nor
anything which I will not show you I am ready to do for
the sake of this.
I return your ladyship my thanks, with all humility and
grateful acknowledgment, that you are pleased to condescend
to see me and suffer me to wait on you where you are. I had
prevented my letter and waited on you that instant, but on the
account of what holds me here and my obligation at this time to
the service of the public. The first hour I can obtain leave and
can get a discharge from hence I shall immediately pay that
duty which I have so long zealously desired to do, and shall
have the honour at the same time of waiting on my Lord
Rutland and of paying that respect I owe. — I am, your, &c.
x
306 Letters.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
LONDON, April 9th, 1698.
You have been extremely kind in the trouble you have put
yourself to on my account, for a Plutarch, which I have not yet
received, but expect from Mr. Pauling, who has promised me to
send it. I wish I could say I have had great need of it, and
that I had been of late more conversant with the ancients and
less with the people of this age. I am sure it had been better
for myself, and for anything that I or any mere honest man
is able to do in public affairs in such a generation as this. I
think it would have been altogether as well for my country and
mankind, if I had done nothing, so fruitless have my endeavours
been, and so little profit arisen from those years I have entirely
given from myself to the public, whilst in the main I myself
grow good for nothing, but rather grow liker and liker to that
sort whom I act with and converse amongst.
Neither is it without cause that a man may fear such an
alteration in himself, when one sees such shipwrecks around one,
and that many an honest man that has held out in former times,
and endured storms, has been cast away in these happy times,
when we expected virtue and honesty should have succeeded
better than ever.
However, this is not by way of excuse for myself, or as
preparing you for some new turn, for I hope I am still honest
and shall keep so, which it may be I should not if I had followed
even the very best examples and the advices of the very best
friends. But if I have any honesty left, I owe to your good
friend and mine, old Horace, and when I have heard of the
wonderful things to be done for the public by coming into the
court (as they call it), his words have sounded in my ear —
1 Quia me vestigia terrent,
Omnia te adversum spec tan tia, nulla retrorsum.
[Because the footprints frighten me,
They all point towards you, none away from you.
— Hor., Ep. II., 1, 7.]
But no more of this. I hope the time is not long ere I shall
change the unprofitable and ungrateful study of these moderns
Letters. 307
of ours for a hearty application to the ancients, and then you
shall, as you desire, hear enough from me concerning those.
My servant Wheelock went into the country for a fortnight,
and left not money in town, or had it not. But I write to him
this post to despatch it, and send me returns. I am glad to hear
my Lady Masham is in town, that I may have the happiness to
wait on her, and I am glad to find you keep where you are,
though I lose your company yet a while. — I am, your sincere,
humble servant, A. ASHLEY.
TO MONS. PIERRE DESMAIZEAUX. 1
ST. GILES'S, August 5th, 1701.
I received yours, which I had answered without delay but
for the agreeable entertainment I had in reading your transla
tion communicated to me. I take it extreme kindly of you to
be in this or any other work of your leisure, and I shall be glad
to give you all the assistance and encouragement I am able.
I have a general acquaintance (as you very well know) with
most of our modern authors and free writers, several of whom I
have a particular influence over. If the author of your
translated treatise be one of these (as I verily believe he is), I
can give you assurance of that assistance you require, and which
will be a great addition by making the translation in effect
another original.
In the meantime I cannot but exhort you to continue your
work begun ; which, by what I have seen hitherto, is indeed
beyond any expectation I could have of a thing of like nature,
and your own thought of sending it as a present to Mr. Bayle
(to whom I cannot but fancy it will be agreeable) is a further
1 Pierre Desmaizeaux (1673?— 11 July, 1745) was a French
Protestant, who took refuge on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes
in Switzerland, and afterwards went to Holland. He became known
to Bayle, who introduced him to Shaftesbury, whom in 1699 he
accompanied to England. Here he engaged in diverse kinds of literary
work. He published numerous books. Among those of a philosophical
character he edited "A collection of several pieces of Locke" (1720), and
a " Recueil de di verses pieces sur la philosophic, la religion naturelle,"
&c., par Leibnitz, Clarke, Newton (1720).
308 Letters.
inducement to me to be urgent with you in this matter against
your own modesty.
One thing I have to add to you, as a serious and earnest
request, and in which you will infinitely oblige me, that on the
first occasion you have of writing to Mr. Bayle you would tell
him how ashamed and troubled I am for having been so long in
his debt as I have been, having never once written to him since his
kind and obliging letter I received by you, and in which I have
an additional obligation to him, by the acquaintance he has given
me of one so deserving as yourself, which is a favour I shall
always own to him, and show that I am not unworthy of by
approving myself your sincere and hearty friend,
SHAFTESBURY.
TO MB. BENNETT.
November 15th, 1701.
MB. BENNETT, — I return you and my worthy friends of
Shaf tesbury 1 my most hearty thanks for your kind expression
of friendship to me in that notice you have taken of my services
to the public and to your town, and for whatever services I or
my family have rendered to either. I think this to be the
greatest return of gratitude and the highest token of your
favour that you are pleased to repose so great a trust in me as
to desire a friend of mine for your representative in Parliament.
I shall not offer one to you but whom I can answer for equally
as for myself, this being a trust of the highest importance. And
as I am in this respect tender of the public, so I cannot but
be the like of my friend in deferring to use a person's name till
I learn from yourself and my other good friends, whether you
insist on my acceptance of this kind offer, so as to make no
breach amongst those I so heartily wish united for the public's
sake, and for the service of the town. To it I of all persons am
the most bound in particular on account of yourself and the rest
of these my worthy friends, to whom I shall ever acknowledge
this great obligation, by approving myself your ever faithful
friend and humble servant.
1 Parliament had been dissolved on November llth, 1701.
Letters. 309
TO BENJAMIN FURLY.i
CHELSEA, December 29th, 1701.
Mr. FURLY, — I believe you hardly wonder at my silence this
last month, when you consider how great a scene has opened for
the public, in which I was called to be so great an actor, having
strongly obliged myself to be so ; for as, on one hand, you know
well I was determined to retire absolutely from all public affairs,
and never to have stirred out of my privacy in the country, had
the King persisted in the resolution of keeping the last Parlia
ment and ministry ; so, on the other hand, having been at one
time almost the single man alive that peremptorily insisted on a
dissolution, and having tried all along both by my friends here
and in Holland to evince the necessity of it, and to bring it to
effect, in which perhaps I may have been some instrument, I had
the strongest obligation on earth upon me to act with vigour, as
I have done since the opportunity the king has most happily
given us, and it has pleased Providence to bless me with great
success,2 for having my province, and that a very hard one, in
two counties long in the hands of the most inveterate of the
adverse party, I notwithstanding carried all that I attempted in
both. In one of them, viz., Wilts, which my brother3 and his
friend represent, instead of two inveterate Tories, we have there
mended the elections by eight, which is a majority of sixteen in
Parliament, and in Dorsetshire, my own county, we have gained
also considerably — my friend Mr. Trenchard being in the room
of a constant ill vote for the county, and my friend Sir John
Cropley being also brought in by me at the place of my name,
Shaftesbury, which was ever entirely in their hands since my
grandfather's death, but which I have now entirely recovered,
!Mr. Benjamin Furly (born 13th April, 1636), an English
merchant of literary tastes, at Rotterdam, was the friend of Locke,
Sidney, and Shaftesbury. A volume of their " Original Letters " to
him, in which this one is included (pp. 162-4), was published by
his descendant, Th. Foster, in 1830. His three sons, Benjohan
(born 6th January, 1681), John, and Arent, also corresponded with
Shaftesbury.
2 The fourth Earl says his father turned the scales in this election.
3 Hon. Maurice Ashley.
310 Letters.
and made zealous. And as a token that the King himself is
right, as we would wish, he yesterday gave me most hearty
thanks for my zeal and good services on this occasion, and this
before much company, which is a sufficient declaration against
Sir Edward Seymour1 and that party, to whom my opposition
was personal, and who himself in person, and by his relations,
opposed me everywhere in the elections, though, I thank God,
were everywhere defeated.
I have thoroughly, and as a friend, considered of the
concern of your son Arent, and though I could have given you
but little encouragement before, I think I may give it you now,
depending on this happy turn of the King and Administration,
which being as it formerly was and seemed likely to continue,
what hope could there be for any of us or our friends ? I will
advise further about it with mine and your friends, for you
may trust me that I am not indifferently, your friend,
SHAFTESBURY.
My kind respects to all yours, and to friends, particularly
Mr. Van Twedde, for whom I truly grieve.
TO LORD MARLBOROUGH.3
April IMh, 1702.
MY LORD, — Before the King had given you regiments I had
his promise that in case Colonel Farrington had a regiment, the
place he held in the Stamp Office should be for my friend Mr.
Micklethwayt.3 When Colonel Farrington had the regiment,
1 "The ablest man of his party," says Burnet, "was Seymour,
who was the first Speaker of the House of Commons that was not
bred to the law."
3 John Churchill, First Duke of Maryborough (1650-1722) was
the most powerful personage at Court during the reign of Queen Anne.
In his campaigns on the Continent he, moreover, added fresh lustre
to the British name by the victories of Blenheim, Ramillies, and
Malplaquet.
3 Robert and Thomas Micklethwayte were two brothers whom
Shaftesbury befriended. For Robert he obtained a position in the
army, and for Thomas an office in the civil service. It was Thomas
Micklethwayte who carried the second edition of the Characteristics
through the press.
Letters. 311
I waited on the King, who confirmed his promise to me, and
afterwards I carried Mr. Micklethwayt to kiss the King's hand
upon it, which he did, and I returned the King my thanks.
If by your lordship's favour in representing this to the
Queen she has such goodness as to allow my friend the benefit
of the King's1 promise, it will be the highest obligation on your
lordship's most obedient, humble servant, SHAFTESBURY.
[Upon the back of this letter to Lord Marlborough is written the following
comment, of which a copy, with the omission of the jirst paragraph, also
appears on another memorandum dated July 9th, 1703.1
By the enclosed letter to my Lord Marlborough (delivered
to him soon after the King's death), I put in my claim for my
friend upon the foundation of what the Queen had publicly
declared, that she would make good what the King had absolutely
promised. But my lord has been pleased to take no notice of
this ever since.
My zeal for the Revolution, and for that principle which
effected it, made me active for the support of the Government,
and for the establishment of the Protestant succession, and it was
my good fortune to have my services well thought of by the
King, and acknowledged by him with great favour.
I had the honour of many offers from the King, but thinking
that for my own part I could best serve him and my country in
a disinterested station, I resolved absolutely against making any
advantage from the public, either to myself or family, by taking
any employment at Court. The only favour I asked of the King
was a small office of two or three hundred pounds a year for my
friend Mr. M te, who had been serviceable to me in serving
him. He kindly granted it, but presently after his promise fell
ill and died. And as this was the only favour I ever asked of
the King, so it is the only one I shall ever ask of those after him,
who I know have just regard to his memory, and whose wisdom
will show them that their happy succession has been owing to
that Prince, his cause and friends. And it will be of the greatest
satisfaction to me to be thus obliged by those whom I am by
principle obliged to serve and will serve still with the hazard of
all I have in the world. SHAFTESBURY.
1 King William, who died on the 8th March, 1702, was succeeded
by Queen Anne.
312 Letters.
TO BENJAMIN FURLY.
ST. GILES, November 4tih, 1702.1
MR. FURLY, — I hope that before this reaches you, your son
Benjamin will be safely arrived : who brings some letters from
me to you and other friends.
My letter to yourself was but short ; since your son, who
came so lately from me, and was so kind as to stay some time
with me longer than he first designed, was able to tell you all
my thoughts of our public affairs, from which I am now much
withdrawn, and must be more so, not only because of this season,
in which it is not so proper for such as I am to act; but in
truth because my efforts in time of extremity, for this last year
or two, have been so much beyond my strength in every respect,
that not only for my mind's sake (which is not a little to one
that loves retirement as I do), but for my health's sake, and on
the account of my private circumstances, I am obliged to give
myself a recess, which will have this agreeable in it, besides the
retirement which I love, that I shall promise myself the happi
ness of seeing you in Holland ; since you have been so long
a-coming to us, but are still so far from it, by what I can guess.
1 have received yours of the 7th, your style, enclosed in
your son's, who wrote me he was then about his journey to
Harwich for the next pacquet. I was mightily pleased to read
in yours of the generous offer of a certain great lord 2 to you for
the preferring of some young man of your recommendation to
his service in his great employment, nor was I less pleased to see
how the young lads received it when you read it to them, and
methought I saw, as if I were present, their honest ambition and
friendly emulation : but it is Harry's duty to waive his part, and
I really think, by what I can judge by this first view, that in
prudence, and according to best advice for their common interest,
*cf Original Letters, pp. 133-6.
2 Charles Mordaunt, third Earl of Peterborough (1658-1735), who
was about to take command of the English forces in the warfare with
Spain, had applied to Mr. Furly for a secretary. The choice lay
between Henry Wilkinson, the protege of Shaftesbury, and Furly's
son Arent, the " foster-child " of Locke. Arent Furly received the
appointment, and continued in the service of the Earl until his death,
which occurred during the campaign in Spain, in 1705.
Letters. 313
and the interest of each in particular, it is better that this favour
should be for Mr. Arent; since being your own son, a kind of
foster-child too to Mr. Locke, my lord's great friend, he can
enjoy the fruits of your recommendation and carry the force of
your own and friend's interest with my lord much better than a
stranger can do, or one whom I am, as perhaps may seem, but
remotely concerned for. Besides that, as for any interest that I
have myself with my lord, it is what I cannot much count upon,
since this last year or two that he threw himself so eagerly into
the Tory interest, and prosecuted both the impeachments and all
those other fatal, obstructive, and unjust measures, with so much
violence. He has now smarted for it, having been barbarously
treated by that party he went over to, who sacrificed him last
year in the House of Commons, where his son, though my good
friend and pupil, never gave us a vote till about that time. My
lord is now come back to his original friends and principles, and
those sores are all healed up, but how it may stand between
myself and him I know not, as to his part, for great men are
not so forgiving as we that are of a lower genius and meeker
spirits ; and, indeed, as much as I honour him now and congratu
late his advancement, which I do more heartily perhaps than
any friend he has in the world, yet at that time I opposed him
earnestly, and told him the treatment he would infallibly meet
with at last from his new friends whom he then joined with.
I was going to have written more, but I just received notice
that my Lord Portland,1 being going through our country, is just
coming hither to stay with me this night, so I shall not have
time to add further.
TO MONS. PIERRE DESMAIZEAUX.
2 ROTTERDAM, 2nd November, 1703.
SIR, — I am obliged to you for yours, which I communicated
to Mr. Bayle. I am sorry you were not present with Mons.
St. Evremond at his death. However, the mark he has placed
1 William, first Earl of Portland and father of the first Duke.
2 " It appears by my father's private account book that he left
England and embarked for Holland August 9th, 1703. He returned
from Holland and arrived at Chelsea August 26th, 1704, having been
set on shore the 22nd at Alborough, in Suffolk." — From Memoranda
by the fourth Earl of certain events in his father's life.
314 Letters.
on you of his esteem and friendship will, I hope, be of advantage
to you in helping to make you known and valued.
I perceive you have not done anything further in the affair
of Lord Buckhurst, my Lord Dorset's son. But whether you
think fit to solicit that business or no, I could wish you to
remember to wait on Mrs. Lundy, who, though she has been
placed by fortune in circumstances not suitable to her birth or
merit, is well worth making court to. She has qualities that
give her an interest with those who are not won by ill or
indifferent ones, and if you are so fortunate as to improve that
beginning of an acquaintance which I gave you, you will find
it, I believe, as agreeable as it may be useful to you and service
able in your affairs, for she is a sincere friend, and indefatigable
in serving those she esteems so.
I am sorry Sir John Cropley knows nothing of that comedy
you lent me, and which, at your desire, I lent him. I remember
I saw it afterwards in his own chamber at my house at Chelsea,
but whether he took it thence to London, or has left it there, I
cannot tell, but have written to my servant-maid at Chelsea to
see if it be in his apartment, or anywhere else in my little house.
If you give yourself the trouble of writing again to me at
any time, you need not trouble Mons. Bayle by enclosing to him,
but either let it be given in at Chelsea or direct it yourself for
me to be left with Mr. Benjamin Furly, merchant, in Rotterdam,
and it will be conveyed to your constant friend to serve you,
SHAFTESBURY.
I could wish Mr. Stephens's second part were well trans
lated into French, as it would be if either by you or the same
hand that did it first. It would be a very small trouble, and
would sell well here with a new edition.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.1
ROTTERDAM, November 6 [1703].
I thought you had not been in the world, it was so long
since I heard from you. Just now I have yours on your return
to St. Giles's.
1 Mr. John Wheelock was the auditor and head steward of
Shaftesbury's estate at St. Giles's. He enjoyed the utmost confidence
and genuine esteem of Shaftesbury.
Letters. 315
I am sorry to hear all things are so low and tenants so
disheartened. The greater must be my frugality and care to
repair the great wounds I have made in my estate. I shall keep
in my compass of £200 for the year that I stay here, and if this
does not do it shall be yet less, and the time longer, for I will
never return to be as I was of late richly poor ; that is to say,
to live with the part of a rich man, a family and house such as
I have, and yet in debt and unable to do any charity or bestow
money in any degree.
If I find my house at St. Giles's and rank greater than I can
sustain with my estate, the rather give up my family and sell all,
so that I may have something to do good with, than bestow
all in supporting such a vast house and appurtenances. I wrote
you much (in a letter some time since the death of my poor
sister Gertrude) about this very matter, the charge of my house,
&c., and of the alteration of the kitchen, and so as to bring that
and the passage to the cellar under my own and housekeeper s
eye through the public court, which if anything will contribute
to ease my charge and make me live within compass at St.
Giles's. But if this cannot be done without addino- more roof
&
to St. Giles's, I can never consent to its doing. But I believe
you may find a place for the wardrobe elsewhere, and not add
any such room, as you once proposed, to the new kitchen.
Pray be more constant in writing to me. I have written
this post to my brother and to my brother Hooper, and to Sir
John, Mr. Micklethwayt, and others, so cannot write but this
short and confused note at present.
My kind love to brother and sister Hooper. I wrote to my
sister but a few posts since. Remembrances to my family,
Mrs. Cooper especially, and recommend to her the care of
my sister Hooper now her lying-in is near.
I thank God I recover very much, and find this air and
retirement the same relief to me as I expected and found
once before.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
ROTTERDAM, November 16th, 1703.
I wrote you word that I had heard from you in one short
letter since your return to St. Giles's; but have yet heard
316 Letters.
nothing in answer to anything I have written since my sister
Gertrude's1 death. I enclose you herein a letter for sister
Hooper 2, to whom, as well as to Mr. Hooper also, I wrote some
time since, but have not yet heard. My sister's time I know
must needs be near by this time. Pray go over sometimes to
Boveridge and desire earnestly of my sister that she would take
due care of herself and not be sparing in sending for Dr. Pitt,
and having all advice and assistance on every occasion. I know
she is but of a tender constitution, and by my late loss I am
made more and more apprehensive ; so that if my sister has any
regard to my satisfaction she will take more care and be better
helped than I know she has been on these occasions. Pray
desire Mrs. Cooper 3 too (to whom my kind remembrances) to go
over sometimes.
I say nothing of my family till I hear from you in answer
to much that I have written.
Your last before my sister's death was very satisfactory to
me. I approved of everything you did and proposed to do,
excepting only the addition of something to the old wardrobe-
roof. Far from adding anything to St. Giles's, I would to God I
could in any way contract.
I hope by your good management for me I may be able (if
I live) to support myself at St. Giles's, but it must be after a
very different way of living. I should have been glad to have
lived in the way that is called hospitable in my country, but
experience has but too well shown me that I cannot do it. Nor
will I ever live again as I have done and spend to the full of my
estate in house and a table. I must have wherewithal to do
good out of my estate, as well as feed a family, maintain a set of
idle servants entailed upon me, and a great mass of building
yet more expensive. If my estate cannot, besides my house and
rank, yield me five or six hundred pounds a year to do good with
(as that rank requires), my house and rank may both go together,
come what will of them, or let the world say what they will,
they shall both to ruin for me, for I shall never think of
1 Gertrude, who was unmarried, died (as here appears) in 1703.
2 Dorothy, who married Edward Hooper, of Hern Court, Hants.
3 Elizabeth Cooper, housekeeper at the estate of St. Giles.
Letters. 317
supporting them since I have not wherewithal to do it and that
which is more necessary. And if ever I hope to live to return
again and keep a family, it must be after another rate, and by
your help I hope to regulate matters otherwise.
As to what you have proposed of setting up the Bull Inn
again in a little credit and tolerable condition for reception, 'tis
what I extremely wish. And it is now chiefly in my absence
that this must be begun and the custom established even for my
own servants. Your example will be able to effect it, and an
absolute shutting up of St. Giles's house stables, not to be opened
again by the trick that was served me a little before my coming
away. If you are now able to deal with these people and these
ways, all the service you can do me in this kind will avail. But
I hope you will be resolute and peremptory by my authority to
prevent these breakings in upon my economy, which if they
proceed and so get the better of you, the consequence will be
great indeed, when I tell you that I shall at last give over family
and house, and all, and determine never more to see St. Giles's,
nor keep up the house, but let it sink, discharge all my servants,
let it to a farm, and so farewell. This is very serious and true.
I would not have you think I am trifling; it is now past that
time of my life. I do not reckon upon many years of life, but
those that are remaining I will not pass in making myself a
slave to a great house and family, striving to make an estate hold
out which is not big enough. If my brother will marry he may
take all and leave me only a hundred pound or two a year. If he
will not, it is his fault, not mine. My health and constitution is
gone, and spent in public services and troubles of my family.
By next I shall send you a paper to be sealed up under your
seal, together with my will, of which I left a duplicate in your
hands. Love to brother and sister Hooper. Dues to friends.
God be with you. Pray write a little of tener.
TO LORD SUNDERLAND.1
ROTTERDAM, November 9th, 1703.
MY LORD, — I have ever esteemed it as the greatest of
honours that you were pleased to distinguish me so early in
1 Robert Spencer, second Earl of Sunderland (1640 — 1702), was
318 Letters.
your life by such particular marks of your friendship and
esteem, and it cannot be but the greatest satisfaction to me to
see that your lordship preserves still the same regard for me,
with that opinion which you have ever had of my love to my
country. I have served it hitherto very diligently (how success
fully I know not), and given my earliest years to that service
as I would do my latest, did not my constitution fail me. I
remember a time when I feared more for your lordship than
for myself, but I rejoice for my country's sake that that turned
otherwise. Your lordship recovered, I soon afterwards sunk
under it, and was forced to retire hither into this country, to
an air which was never found good except by very bad lungs.
It set me up, and I returned to the same service in my country
till the time that I had the honour of serving again your
lordship in another house. But I was unable to go through
this last winter, and I am now got into the same retirement,
by which I am a little recovered. How I should be able to
cross the sea again so soon, and in the winter time, I cannot
tell; but I have no hopes of being able to go by this convoy
which brings the King of Spain, and I know not how soon
we may expect another. Whatever becomes of me, or where-
ever I am, I hope your lordship will always believe that I
have ever been, and shall be to my last, your lordship's most
sincere and faithful humble servant, SHAFTESBURY.
TO SIR ROWLAND GWINN, AT HANOVER,
ROTTERDAM, January 23rd, 1704.
SIR, — I am extremely obliged to you for yours, and the
kind thoughts of me which you express in it. What you have
heard of me as to my being much retired and having left public
affairs is true.
I kept in them as long as I was able ; but by a constitution
unfitted for the fatigue of business, I had long since been forced
to quit, but that I chose to suffer anything rather than not come
in the Halifax Ministry under James II., whose cause he abandoned,
and went to Holland. He returned to power under William III., but
was compelled to resign in 1697.
Letters. 319
in heartily and with all my strength at that last hour when I
apprehended not my country only, but mankind, was sinking,
had not the Prince,1 then alive, been supported, a war entered
into, and an English Protestant Succession established.
I have lived to see the chief est of those ends compassed, and
those good laws passed for the establishment of our constitution,
which I wished for at the Revolution; but which were after
wards got with so much envy, struggle, and pain, as I cannot
remember but with regret, for that Prince's sake, whose
memory, however, with all true Englishmen, I must still honour
and love. I hope the remainder of this good work will be
perfected, and the war for common liberty carried on with
vigour ; it lying wholly now in the power of our English Court,
where I hope the will is not wanting ; and I rejoice to hear such
noble maxims from an English Throne as we have lately had
from thence.
If those persons of your Court are such as you describe,
there are yet treasures of happiness in store for England and the
world. I can rely on your judgment sooner than on most
persons living, but cannot help in myself a natural diffidence of
courts, after having been deceived so much in one I so early
loved, and had such thoughts of as to believe it no less than
impossible to have seen it sacrifice its best friends and lay itself
at last so low by such repeated acts, and by losing even that
degree of faith and gratitude which attends common policy and
interest. Everything in nature seems to demonstrate this truth,
that things are to be maintained and advanced by the principles
on which they were founded. But courts are super-natural
things and subservient to none of these rules. All is miraculous
there, and out of the order of common human policy, or at least
seems to be so, to retired and speculative people such as myself.
But I have troubled you enough, having no better or other
subject for a correspondence, which otherwise I would with the
greatest willingness embrace, but that the terms are so unequal
between one in a principal court of Europe and one living out of
the world, and knowing little of what passes till long after it
has passed and is no longer news.
1 Prince William of Orange.
320 Letters.
Though I am not now in Parliament myself, where I never
was of much service, and for the future can be of little or none,
yet I cannot but regret the loss we have of you, whom I have
ever esteemed one the most fitted and most useful.
If anything can make amends, it is your being where you
are to give that good advice you are so capable of, in which
station, as one of the greatest importance to us, I am neces
sitated to think you of any Englishman the most fitted. I am
conscious, too, of the services you did me at a former court
(our then presumptive successor's), where I first knew you,
and where, as an omen of my being for ever a bad courtier,
I made choice of you (an Englishman and Whig), instead of
any other to present me, which is a circumstance it's likely
you may ere this have forgotten. I am glad, however, of this
occasion of remembering it, though at such a distance of time,
that I might thus show you with what early obligation, and
by what ties of private friendship as well as public principles,
I am and must be your most real and faithful, humble servant,
SHAFTESBUEY.
TO THE BISHOP OF SARUM.i
ROTTERDAM, February 5th, 1704.
MY LORD, — I am very much concerned to find your lordship
should have had trouble given you, from a concern of my
family, especially so unhappy a one, and in which I am so little
able to give your lordship the satisfaction I earnestly wish.
I would willing take up as little more of your time as is
possible, and, therefore, beg your lordship to believe what I say
here is the utmost I can ever say.
Whether the gentleman2 that has still thoughts of my
sister 3 has in any respect ill used either her or myself or made
any ill return to my friendship shown him, I will not enter into
or judge of ; but, be it of what nature soever, if there be anything
of that kind I willing pass it over, and as much as in me lies
forgive it him. Nor shall I any more oppose his pretensions to
1 Gilbert Burnet was Bishop of Salisbury (Old Sarum) from 1689
to 1715. He was one of the earliest of Broad Churchmen.
2 Francis Stonehouse, Esq. 3 His sister Frances.
Letters. 321
my sister, or dis-serve him by using my authority or credit
(if I have any) with my sister, to turn her from her present
thoughts. I . shall be no way a hindrance to the match, though
for reasons I would by no means give your lordship the trouble
of hearing, I can never be for it, or in the least concerned in it.
It may be against my opinion and against my judgment
(for that I cannot help), but it shall not be against my will, for
your lordship thinking favourable of it, and it being my sister's
desire, I acquiesce and would give a formal consent too, if that
were necessary, but it is not so. My sister is of age, and at her
liberty may dispose of herself and fortune, and I am willing
she should do so ; as she likes best and thinks most for her
happiness, which I shall always wish her.
I am ashamed of this trouble your lordship has had, and
will add no more to it, besides assuring you that nobody can be
with more sincere respect than I am, my lord, your most faithful
and humble servant.
P.S. — The trouble I am in makes me doubtful whether I
have expressed myself as clearly as I ought when speaking to
your lordship of my consent, which relates only to my readiness
to pay my sister, without controversy or delay, that fortune
which she has in reality, independent of me, by Act of Parlia
ment. If I have besides determined any additional fortune for
my sisters, it is where they dispose of themselves to my satis
faction ; not as this sister is like to do, to my affliction,1 in which,
however, I submit.
TO HIS SISTER FRANCES.
HOLLAND, 18th March, 1704.
SISTER FRANCES, — I received yours, and am glad to hear
from you that you take kindly anything that I have written,
though in answer to others, where you were silent yourself.
My leave l which you speak of, is what you have never
wanted for anything since of age. My advice I have been
ready enough to give you, and if you follow it not there is no
offence, nor shall I complain ; my desire having been that you
1 To marry Francis Stonehouse, Esq.
322 Letters.
should be free and independent on me, as I made you and
your sister long since by Act of Parliament.
Whatever place or circumstance you are in (for that I
know not) I wish you happiness, all that your choice can
afford you, and whatever you may be towards me shall always
be towards yourself, suitably to my relation and the bond of
nature, your loving brother, SHAFTESBUEY.
TO SIR ROWLAND GWINK
ROTTERDAM, April 19th, 1704.
It is hardly possible for me to receive anything with more
satisfaction than I have done yours.
The marks of your friendship are what I shall always
esteem amongst the greatest advantages that can come to me on
my private account, and on the public's share, there could have
been nothing so satisfactory and rejoicing to me as to be assured
by you (as I fully am) how excellent and deserving those persons
are on whom the future happiness of England and the world
depends.
The undeserved regard which the Electrice 1 is pleased to
express for me, with the notice taken of me by the Queen of
Prussia,2 and the letter from her which you have communicated
to me is so great an honour that I cannot pretend to make any
return myself, but must for this rely upon your friendship and
good offices in my behalf, that as little worthy as I may be of
such an honour in every respect besides, I may not however
appear wholly unworthy, by want of a due acknowledgment and
grateful sense.
It is not a mere aversion to courts that hinders me accepting
so obliging an offer and invitation from such who were they
even private persons I should yet have the highest esteem for in
1 The Electress Sophia, of Hanover, mother of George I., King of
England.
2 Sophia Charlotte, daughter of the Electress Sophia, and grand
mother of Frederic the Great. She was a brilliant woman, and a
patron of learning. The philsopher Leibnitz was her revered friend
and teacher.
Letters. 323
the world, and for whose sakes, as great a lover as I am of free
climates, I could be contented to breathe despotic air and quit
retirement to visit once again a court. But I am now obliged to
think of returning into England, and my stay can be but short
on this side.
Wherever I am, I beg you to believe that I esteem myself
under great obligations. — Your faithful friend and affectionate
humble servant, SHAFTESBURY.
TO JOHN LOCKE.
CHELSEA, September 1th, 1704.
If I had been in a condition to have written a line, I should
not have sent you Mr. Furly's without something from myself,
and were I now so well as to undertake a journey, I should
be thinking of seeing you in the first place before any other
of my friends, especially hearing (as I do with great trouble)
that you are of late worse l than you used to be.
My own distemper (which was an ill fever got at sea
after having been three weeks a ship-board) is, I hope, quite
off, though I am yet very weak.
When perfectly recovered (if it so please God) my first
thoughts will be of a journey to you. Meanwhile, pray believe
me (as I hope you ever did and will), your faithful friend and
humble servant, SHAFTESBURY.
Pray present my humble service to Sir Francis and my lady.
Being obliged now ere long to set about a work long delayed — a
monument for my grandfather, as enjoined me by my grand
mother — I should be extremely glad that you would so far
remember my grandfather as to let me have some lines from
you for an inscription, in Latin and English.
[Address] : For Mr. Locke, at Sir Francis Masham's, in Gates,
near Bishops Stafford, Essex.
1 This was Locke's last illness, as he died on the 28th of October,
1704.
324 Letters.
TO DR. BURGESS.
ST. GILES'S, January, 1704 (5).
SIR, — Your letting me know the report of my restraining
my brother1 from standing for Wilts was a great favour and
obligation in giving me the opportunity of doing myself justice
in a very sensible part. It has pleased God to render my life
in prospect very useless to my country through an unhappy
constitution unable to bear the town air, and much broken of
late years by my strict attendance of Parliaments there, and
other public services such as I was able to undergo. I began
early and served heartily, perhaps beyond my strength, and
not contented to serve alone, I did my best to qualify a brother,
in other respects as well as with a good estate, to serve with me,
which I thank God he did, in very trying and urgent times, with
as much integrity and zeal as my heart could wish.
What particular circumstances should make him at present
decline the service I cannot enter into ; but by my own behaviour
and life, as well as for what I have done for him, I can hardly
think my friends can suppose it other than the greatest pleasure
and satisfaction I can enjoy to see him active in the public, either
with me or in my stead, arid as much as I know of his modesty
and unambitious temper, which restrain him perhaps in stricter
moral bounds than ordinary, I cannot think it possible he should
refuse (as you express it) to serve his country, though elected
without his interposition. I should readily expostulate with
him on this subject : but as the obligations I have laid on him
were never so intended by me as to take from him the condition
of a free man, so in this particular, as well as in others, I have
promised to leave him to his perfect liberty, and must do so
whate'er it cost me.
I owe an infinite debt of gratitude to that great man you
mention, both on my own and brother's account, if I may call
that infinite which I count never sufficiently to be acknowledged
by me. But the noble principles espoused by him, and the love
of mankind, his country, and the best of causes, will assure him
1 Maurice Ashley.
Letters. 325
of a recompense above what a thousand such as I am can make,
though I shall ever be devotedly his.
With hearty thanks to you for this, your good wishes and
prayers, I remain, your affectionate humble servant.
TO PETER KING.1
ST. GILES'S, January, 1704 (5).
SIR, — My ill health, which has been my hindrance in many
things, has done me the most sensible injury in making me fail
so long in my acknowledgment to so good a friend as yourself,
particularly after so great a demonstration of your friendship.
The few sheets or lines, however imperfect, which our deceased
friend, Mr. Locke, has left on the subject of my grandfather,2
are to me, at least, very precious remains, and, if nothing more,
are, however, the kindest pledges of his love to the memory and
family of his great friend. How happy for me, and for the public,
perhaps, no less, that he had lived to perfect them. But who so
fit to perfect this, or any other thing he left, as the person whom
he has left to succeed him, and who, as nearest related to him in
blood, is the nearest so in genius, parts, and principles ? And
methinks at leisure hours it would be no unpleasant task for one
who so nobly asserted the rights of the people to vindicate the
much-injured memory of one who a champion in that cause, and
must make no small a part of the history of those times when
the foundation was laying for the present glorious ones, and for
the happy Revolution that gave birth to them. The noble
progress of this cause in those latter days has often made me
wish a historian worthy of it, and if this, or any other occasion,
ever so slight, could be able to turn your thoughts towards a
matter of so great weight. I should think it very happy, for it
is not a single man's life, but the history of our own age, that I
am wishing for, not for the patriot's sake, but for the cause.
1 Peter King (1669-1734), the Lord Chancellor, was a relative and
protege of John Locke, and received from him a bequest of all his
manuscripts, now known as the Lovelace Collection.
2 The first Earl of Shaftesbury, with whose family Locke held
such intimate relations for many years. — See p. 329.
326 Letters.
But be this as your better genius may direct you, I scarce could
allow myself to hint such a thing to you, being thus interested,
as I confess myself, and being already so much indebted to you,
and by several obligations, Sir, yours, &c.
P.S. — I must confess I have naturally a great impatience to
see the sheets, but being not willing to venture the original by
any carriage, I should be extremely glad of having a copy by
the post as soon as you can get them written out f6r me.
Since what I have written to you I have received an earnest
letter from Mons. Le Clerc, in Holland, to send him what I
possibly can of Mr. Locke's life, particularly the former part
whilst he lived with my grandfather, designing, as he tells me,
to write on that subject, and expressing great zeal for the cause
as well as for the persons. But this is for foreigners, and
requires haste, having promised that the account which he is
to give of Mr. Locke and his writings should come out soon.
I will engage to send him what I can and let him know
I have consulted you, that whatever I send may pass through
your hands to be corrected and improved. This has given
me greater assurance in sending this letter to you, with what
I have ventured to propose, and might have served for my
excuse had it come sooner, but I hope you are friend enough
to forgive my weakness, if there be any, in my concern for
the memory of such relation, joined as it is closely with that
of our friend.
TO JEAN LE CLEKC.1
ST. GILES'S, \Wi January, 1705.
SIR, — I have great pleasure in receiving your commands.
It is enough for me to know that I can serve you in anything*
1 Jean Le Clerc (1657 — 1736) was of Swiss origin, but occupied
for many years the chair of Philosophy, Belles Lettres, and Hebrew
in the College of Remonstrants at Amsterdam. He was an eminent
critic and divine. His literary labours were extensive and varied.
The large influence he exercised in Europe was, however, chiefly
due to his periodical publications, the "Bibliotheque Universelle,"
26 vols., Amst., 1686 — 1693; "Bibliotheque Choisie," 28 vols., Amst.,
1703 — 1713; and the Bibliotheque Ancienne et Moderne, 28 vols.>
Letters. 327
for no one would do it more readily or heartily, but when you
add to this the interest of our friend's memory, it lays the
greatest obligation on me, and I must own and what I am apt to
be the most concerned for is the vindication of that relation's
memory,1 that is so kindly joined by you, as indeed it naturally
is, with that of our common friend.2 My misfortune is to be
retired at present in the country, for my recovery from a
sickness I got by ill weather and a long fatigue at sea, on my
coming away from you in Holland.3 This has made your letter
long in coming to me, and must make me longer in consulting
my relations and those old people of my family in town who can
remember far back. But I will make all possible despatch in
sending you those particulars of our friend's life (since his
coming into my family), which I could with pleasure give you a
large account of, excepting only the precise dates required. How
happy should I be to enjoy for a while your conversation on this
particular subject particularly ; though on every subject it is the
most desirable and what I am the most covetous of. I should
not have lost so late an opportunity of enjoying it, but had made
a second journey this last summer to Amsterdam, had I not
heard of your intending to visit Rotterdam, where I was then
staying for a convoy which brought me away in haste. You
shall hear from me again as soon as possible, and since you have
honoured our nation in many respects besides in learning of our
language, I shall continue to write thus to you in English, for I
think it not to be esteemed a compliment merely to say that by
having won so great a man as yourself to an esteem of our sense
Amst., 1714—1727. He published in " The Bibliotheque Choisie " for
1705, an "Eloge Historique de feu M. Locke," which has been the
foundation of many subsequent biographies of Locke. In its prepara
tion he sought information of Shaftesbury. Indeed, this celebrated
Eloge consists largely of a translation of two letters, one of which, dated
12th January, 1705, Le Clerc received from Lady Damaris Masham,
at whose house Locke resided from 1691, until his death in 1704, and
the other, which here immediately follows in the text, under the date
of the 8th February, 1705, contained a sketch of Locke's life, written
for him by Shaftesbury.
1 The First Earl of Shaftesbury. John Locke.
3 Shaftesbury returned from Holland in August, 1704.
328 Letters.
and writings, we have gained as much honour in letters as lately
in the field by arms. I am satisfied in no nation you have more
friends that honour and esteem you, and I intreat you to depend
on myself as one who have long been and am now like to be
with the greater obligation, your faithful friend and humble
servant.
P.S. — I have written Mr. King,1 Mr. Locke's nearest
relation, and heir, and who inherits many of his qualities,
and is at present the greatest young man we have, both in
our laws and in the Parliament. Mr. Locke has left his books
and writings to another young man2 of great worth and of
a good estate, of whom you will have a better account from
Gates, I having not the honour of being so particularly well
acquainted with him as that family is to whom he is a
neighbour ; but I hear there are many of Mr. Locke's manu
scripts in his hands designed for the Press, of which you might
easily be informed if you would allow yourself a little time.
TO JEAN LE CLERC.3
ST. GILES'S, IN DORSET, 8th February, 1705.
MONS. LE CLERC, — Having once written to you in my
own language, I continue to use the same privilege. I am sorry
that I am in no better a condition to acquit myself of my
promise to you. My recovery has been so slow that I am scarce
yet got up and have been unable to hold any correspondence
with my friends in town. Mr. King promised to send me the
papers I mentioned to you of Mr. Locke's, who it seems had
begun some Memoirs4 of his own relating to my grandfather.
Those, however imperfect, yet as being Mr. Locke's own, I should
have been glad to have sent you with what supplement I could
1 Peter King, Lord Chancellor.
2 Frances Cudworth Masham, to whom Locke left half his books.
The other half and all his manuscripts were, however, bequeathed to
Peter Lord King.
3 cf Notes and Queries, Yol. III., Feb. 8th, 1851, pp. 97-99.
4 The " Memoirs relating to the Life of Anthony, first Earl of
Shaffcesbury " were printed in Locke's Posthumous Works, 1 706.
Letters. 329
make myself, but Mr. King's engagements in public affairs has
made him delay this so long that according to the account you
have given me of the shortness of your time, I must wait no
longer, but content myself with giving you what I can out
of my own head, without other assistance.
" Mr. Locke came into my grandfather's family in the summer
of the year 1666, by his friend Mr. Bennett,* of the town of
Shaftesbury. The occasion of it was thus : My grandfather had
been ill for a great while, after a fall, by which his breast was so
bruised that in time it came to an imposthumation within and
appeared by a swelling under his stomach. Mr. Locke was at that
time a student in physic at Oxford, and my grandfather taking a
journey that way to drink the waters (having Mr. Bennett in the
coach with him), he had this young physician presented to him,
who, though he had never practised physic, yet appeared to my
grandfather to be such a genius that he valued him above all
his other physicians, the great men in practise of those times.
Accordingly by his direction1 my grandfather underwent an
operation which saved his life, and was the most wonderful of
the kind that had been heard of till that time. His breast was
laid open and the matter discharged, and an orifice ever afterwards
kept open by a silver pipe, an instrument famous upon record
in the writings of our Popish and Jacobite authors, who never
failed to reproach him with this "infirmity." After this cure,
Mr. Locke grew so much in esteem with my grandfather, that as
great a man as he had experienced him in physic, he looked
upon this but as his least part ; he encouraged him to turn his
thoughts another way ; nor would he suffer him to practise at
all in physic, except in his own family, and as a kindness to
some particular friends. He put him upon the study of the
religious and civil affairs of the nation, with whatsoever related
to the business of a Minister of State, in which he was so
successful, that my grandfather began soon to use him as a
* A gentleman of a sound Protestant family, always in great
friendship with ours. Both father and son were members of Parlia
ment for that town, and were stewards to my grandfather.
JIn other MSS., "On his advice, and almost solely by his
direction."
330 Letters.
friend, and consult with him on all occasions of that kind. He
was not only with him in his library and closet, but in company
with the great men of those times, the Duke of Buckingham,
Lord Halifax, and others, who, being men of wit and learning,
were as much taken with him; for together with his serious,
respectful, humble character, he had a mixture of pleasantry and
a becoming boldness of speech. The liberty he could take with
these great men was peculiar to such a genius as his. A pleasant
instance of it runs in my mind, though perhaps the relation
of it may not be so pleasing to another. At an appointed
meeting of two or three of those great men at my grandfather's
house more for entertainment and good company than for
business, it happened that after a few compliments the cards
were called for, and the Court fashion prevailing, they were
engaged in play before any conversation was begun. Mr. Locke
sat by as a spectator for some time ; at last, taking out his table-
book, began to write something very busily, till being observed
by one of the lords, and asked what he was meditating. My
lord (said he), I am improving myself the best I can in your
company, for having impatiently waited this honour of being
present at such a meeting of the wisest men and greatest wits
of this age, I thought I could not do better than to write your
conversation, and here I have it in substance, all that has passed
for an hour or two. There was no need of Mr. Locke's reciting
much of the dialogue. The great men felt the ridicule and took
pleasure in improving it. They quitted their play and fell into a
conversation becoming them, and so passed the remainder of the
day.
When my grandfather, from being Chancellor of the
Exchequer, was made High Chancellor, which was in the year
1672, he advanced Mr. Locke to the place of Secretary for
the Clergy. And when my grandfather quitted the Court and
began to be in danger from it, Mr. Locke now shared with him
in dangers as before in honours and advantages. He entrusted
him with his secretest negotiations, and made use of his
assistant pen in matters that nearly concerned the State, and
were fit to be made public to raise that spirit in the nation which
was necessary against the prevailing Popish party. It was for
something of this kind that got air, and out of great tenderness
Letters. 331
for Mr. Locke, that my grandfather, in the year 1674, sent
him abroad to travel, an improvement which my grandfather was
glad to add to those he had already given him. His health
served as a very just excuse, he being consumptive as early in
his life as that was, so that having travelled through France he
went to * Montpelier, and there stayed for some time. He
returned again to my grandfather in the year 1678, and
remained in his family till the year 1682, which was the year
my grandfather retired into Holland, and there died. Mr. Locke,
who was to have soon followed him thither, was not prevented
in the voyage by his death, but found it safest for him to retire
thither, and there lived at our good friend Mr. Furly's, of
Rotterdam, till the happy Revolution of King William, which
restored him to his native country and to other public ^offices of
greater note, which by fresh merits he had deserved. Witness
his then published books of government, trade, and commerce,
by which he had as considerably served the State as he had
done the Church and Protestant interest by his defence of
toleration and the support of the Revolution principles. But
of this part of his life you need no information.
Thus far I have made mention of Mr. Locke as to his
station in public affairs under my grandfather. Now as to his
services in private affairs, and the concerns of a family which
was in every respect so happy in him that he seemed as a
good guardian angel sent to bless it.
When Mr. Locke first came into the family, my father was
then a youth of about fifteen or sixteen. My grandfather
entrusted him wholly to Mr. Locke for what remained of his
education. He was an only child, and of no firm health, which
induced my grandfather, in concern for his family, to think
of marrying him as soon as possible. He was too young
to choose a wife for himself, and my grandfather too much
in business to choose one for him. The affair was nice,
for though my grandfather required not a great fortune, he
insisted on good blood, good person and constitution, and above
* It was here he became acquainted with my Lord Pembroke, then
a younger brother, who is at present so great an ornament and support
of his nation.
332 Letters.
all good education and a character as remote as possible from
that of a court or town-bred lady. All this was thrown upon
Mr. Locke, who being already so good a judge of men, my grand
father doubted not of his equal judgment in women. He
departed from him entrusted and sworn as Abraham's head
servant that ruled over all that he had, and went into a far
country (the north of England) to seek for his son a wife, whom
he as successfully found. Of her, I and six more of us (brothers
and sisters) were born, in whose education from the earliest
infancy Mr. Locke governed according to his own principles
(since published * by him), and with such success that we all of
us came to full years with strong and healthy constitutions. My
own was the worst, which was, however, never faulty till of late.
I was his more peculiar charge, being as eldest son taken by
my grandfather and bred under his immediate care, Mr. Locke
having the absolute direction of my education, and to whom
next my immediate parents, as I must own the greatest obliga
tion, so I have ever preserved the highest gratitude and duty.
I could wish that my time and health would permit me to be
longer in the account of my friend and foster-father, Mr. Locke.
If I add anything as you desire concerning my grandfather
himself it must have a second place. This being a subject more
selfish, and in which I may justly suspect myself of partiality,
of which I would willingly be free, and think I truly am so in
this I now send you. But I fear lest this, such as it is, should
come too late, and therefore hasten to conclude this with
repeated assurances of my being your obliged friend and humble
servant.
P.S. — If, after what I have said, I dare venture a word to you
as to my grandfather's apology for the one and only thing which
I repine at in his whole life (I mean the unhappy words you
mention, delenda est Carthago}, it would be this, that the public
would not insist on this as so ill and injurious if they considered
the English Constitution and manner of those times, in
which the Prince, more lofty in prerogative and at a greater
distance from his people than now-a-days, used but a few words
to his Parliament and committed the rest to his Keeper or
1 " Thoughts concerning Education," 1693.
Letters. 333
Chancellor, to speak his sense for him (as he expressed it in the
conclusion of his own speech). Upon which my grandfather,
the then Chancellor, and in his Chancellor's place,* spoke the
King's sense as the King's mouth, in the same manner as the
Speaker of the House of Peers or Commons speaks the House's
sense, as the House's mouth, for so he is esteemed and called^
whatsoever may be his own private sense, or though he may
have delivered his own opinion far contrary.
Such was my grandfather's case : who was far from
delivering his vote or opinion in this manner, either as a
Councillor or Peer or in his place in Parliament, where he carried
on a directly opposite interest, he being already in open enmity
with the Duke of York and his party that carried on that war.
In so much that he was at that very time suspected of holding
a correspondence with Holland in favour of the Commonwealth
party in England. However it be, it is no small comfort to me,
that that wise Commonwealth of Holland, the parent and
nursing mother of liberty, thought him worthy of their protection
when he was a sufferer for the common cause of religion and
liberty, and he must ever remain as a noble instance of the
generosity of that State and of that potent head of it, the City
of Amsterdam, where yourself and other great men have met
with a reception that will redound to their honour.
My grandfather, turning short upon the Court (as Sir Wm.
Temple f expresses it), had only this plain reason for it : that
* This speech as an act of Council was examined beforehand in
the Cabinet. Mr. Locke saw the first copy of it, which was very
different, and after it was altered in the Cabinet, my grandfather
complained to Mr. Locke and a relation of his, whom Mr. Locke
introduced into the family. The same has left me a written account
of that affair, and so great was my grandfather's concern and trouble,
that he, who, of all men, was esteemed the most ready in speaking,
was forced to desire Mr. Locke to stand at his elbow, with the written
copy, to prompt him in the case of failure in his repetition.
'f It is my grandfather's misfortune to have Sir Wm. Temple, a
valuable author, very unfavourable to him : there having been a great
quarrel between them on a slight occasion of my grandfather's having
stopped the gift of plate after his Embassy — a custom which my grand
father, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, thought very prejudicial.
334 Letters.
he discovered the King to be a Papist, through that disguise
of an esprit-fort, which was a character his vices and over
fondness of wit made him act very naturally. Whatever
compliances my grandfather as a statesman might make before
this discovery to gain the King from his brother and the French
party, he broke off all when, by the Duke of Buckingham's
means, he had gained this secret. For my grandfather's aversion
and irreconcilable hatred to Popery was (as fanaticism) confessed
by his greatest enemies to be his master passion. Nor was it
ever said that the King left him, but he the King ; for nothing
was omitted afterwards by that Prince to regain him, nor when
that was found impossible, nothing to destroy him. — But I must
end, lest I fail this post."
TO SIR ROWLAND GWINN, OF HANOVER.
ST. GILES'S, 24>th February, 1704 (5).
SIR, — When I received your last but one I was at Rotterdam,
waiting a convoy for England, from whence I hoped soon to have
written an answer, but after a miserable passage,1 and being
above a month aboard, I got a sickness which has held me this
whole winter, and had I not retired hither from the town must
have ended me ere now. In this state I thought it not worth
troubling you with a letter ; otherwise I should never have lost
an opportunity of entertaining so agreeable a correspondence,
and had I been any ways active in the public as formerly, I
should not have failed to prevent you in the thoughts of coming
into the next Parliament. It would have been the highest
pleasure to me to have endeavoured to have served you in this
way. But in my present state and circumstances I am so remote
from all concernment in the approaching elections 2 that I know
no more of them than by uncertain rumours ; nor do I know
concerning my nearest relations or friends whether they stand
or no, or for what places. So that I am pretty secure against
such a censure in a future House of Commons as was designed
1 August, 1704.
2 Parliament was dissolved on April 5, 1705.
Letters. 335
me in the beginning of this by the Tory party, for meddling too
much in the affair of elections. Whether the Court would be as
ready to join with them now against those of my principle I
know not, but there has been no injury or ill usage omitted
hitherto that could possibly come from thence, and they have so
far either discouraged or disabled us poor Whigs that no doubt
but by the power which in these countries they have wholly
placed in Tory hands they will obtain such a Parliament l as will
make all easy to them. But it is not for a retired sick man to
reason deep in politics, otherwise I should be still wondering
at the hard fate of Whigs at this present time, more than
ever since at the very time they are the chief est support of a
Ministry and the only of a Government, they are themselves
the only obnoxious people and the farthest off from being
considered.
In the midst of our promising successes abroad one has but
too many subjects of allay. The death of that wonderful
Princess, the Queen of Prussia,2 had I never known her but from
fame, would have been but too melancholy. How much the
honour of knowing her and being (as you tell me) remembered
by her must add to this you may imagine. I hear this
moment of the death of my good Lord Huntingdon,3 a youth
I shall for ever regret, having found in him more valuable
qualities and more love of his country than in any of his age
and rank.
I know not why I mention this, or how I came to write so
long a letter, being indeed unfit to write long as my health is,
and having so many melancholy occasions.
The news you write me of the Electrice's4 bearing the
Queen's death is a great comfort; should hers follow we were
miserable indeed. Forgive me that I add only my being your
obliged friend and humble servant.
1 In the new Parliament, which met in October, 1705, the Whigs
had a majority.
2 Sophie Charlotte, Queen of Prussia, died 1st February, 1705.
3 George, eighth Earl of Huntingdon, died February 22nd, 1704-5.
4 The Electress Sophia of Hanover, mother of the Queen of
Prussia.
336 Letters.
TO LORD SOMERS.1
CHELSEA, October 20th, 1705.
To Lord S s, with " Moralists " (then entitled " The Sociable
Enthusiast."2)
MY LORD, — Enclosed is an odd book, without date, preface,
or dedication. It might have been dedicated to you, perhaps,
if it had been to be published. But the author has more
kindness for you and himself than to call either name in
question for meddling with such subjects. You have had a
" Tale of a Tub " dedicated 3 to you before now, but a " Tale of
Philosophy" would be a coarser present to come publicly upon
you as that did. But here you are screened, and if you have
any fancy to read, you have privacy sufficient. For so wholly
and solely is the book dedicated to you, that nobody has set
their eyes on it, nor shall, besides yourself. How do I know
that ? (you will say), for is it not in your power to show it ?
1 John Somers (1651—1716), Lord High Chancellor of England,
may be regarded as the best type of the " Old Whigs," and to him was
chiefly due the credit of the Act of Union of England and Scotland.
He was a man of great erudition and a patron of learning. He cor
responded with Le Clerc, offered aid to Bayle for his Dictionary, and
secured pensions for Addison and Swift. Shaftesbury forwarded to
him all of his philosophical productions before they were otherwise
given to the world, and also accompanied them, as in the present
instance, with most interesting letters.
2 Two copies of this earlier printed work are to be found among
the Shaftesbury papers in the Record Office. The one has still its
original title-page of " The Sociable Enthusiast : a Philosophical
Adventure written to Palemon " (Bundle 24, No. 5) ; the other has
substituted in manuscript the new title of " The Moralists : a Philo
sophical Rhapsody" (Bundle 24, No. 4). The latter copy is also full
of corrections and additions in the handwriting of the third Earl of
Shaftesbury, nearly as printed in the " Characteristics," Vol. III. If
the date ascribed to this letter be correct, " The Sociable Enthusiast "
would belong to the year 1705, whereas "The Moralists" appeared in
1708—9.
8 The "Tale of the Tub" (1704) was dedicated to John, Lord
Somers, by Dean Swift.
Letters. 337
— No. There is a certain constraint which a man of your
character lives under. You are bound by candour and fairness
not to do what you are forbidden by one who has this right over
his own gift. You have it free, and are desired to use it as
freely. If you have no fancy for it burn it, or despatch it
any way. Show it you must not, for it is otherwise enjoined
you, and though you are too fair to do this injury to a stranger,
how know you, after all, but it may be a friend, and a particular
one, whom you may thus disoblige ? But as to this point I am
safe, after what I have said. Now a word to the business itself.
There was once a time when statesmen and such as
governed in the Senate and in the field thought it no disgrace to
them to give many spare hours to philosophy. One might have
seen the noble patriots meeting often upon these parties in the
country, and at their villas near the town, to debate of these
affairs, enquire into the laws of their greater country and
discourse of the nature of the universe, the ends of man, and
the distinctions of good and ill. The Laliuses and the Scipios,
the Ciceros and the Brutuses, are now out of date. Philosophy
has not the honour to be owned by men of note or breeding, and
the author you have here to deal with has been hard put to it
to contrive what persons he should bring in play, upon whom he
might father his philosophy. At last he e'en desperately ventured
it with the younger men, and laid his scene in the midst of
gallantry and pleasure. For gallantry and ladies must have a
part in everything that passes for polite in our age. The worse
luck for us. It shows our Gothic extract. 'Twas knight
errantry made the fair sex the rule of everything. The same
zeal that made the priesthood absolute over men's souls, made
the sex as powerful over their understandings. Posterity pays
for this : for since ladies have had to do out of their chambers,
and priests out of their temples, philosophy has gone to wreck,
and there has been sad havoc among the men of sense. Reason,
wit, and letters are no longer a security to great men's under
standings. They betray themselves on every occasion of their
private lives, and are no more able to regulate their opinions or
conduct or what relates to their happiness than the merest of
the vulgar whom they despise. Nobody stands to his own
choice in life or death. It is a lottery-chance of our soul.
z
338 Letters.
Effeminacy and superstition are twin passions, and philo
sophy (their common foe) being set aside, they play their tricks
alike upon mankind. For as those fops who escape the most
dangerous beauties are caught at last by some odd monks, so
unhappy bigots, breaking out of the common road of religion,
are entangled in by-paths and deeper in the briars than before.
To save the invidious examples of time present, I could bring
several known instances of a former witty reign, where many
of the wits that laughed at common religion were taken up
with conjurers, chemists, astrologers, fortune-tellers: and the
Monarch himself, too, at the bottom as great a cully in this
kind as he was in another. His death crowned all. The whore
and confessor closed the scene, and pieced admirably well with
the morals that went before.
This is human nature. This is what we must all come to,
if we take no more care of ourselves to get better notions of
things, a truer taste and more settled opinions than such as
are palmed upon us by fashion or authority. It is not wit,
pleasantry, or humour that can fence against those spectres of
our childhood. Nor can a little brisk thought wed us to the new
opinions we are fond of, when we think we become wiser than
ordinary. We may think what we will ; but neither the former
nor the latter of these are our own opinions. A great deal must
go to make an opinion our own and free it from affectation and
dependency. Formalities, pomps, and ceremonies must be
broken through, prejudices torn off, and truth stripped as naked
as ever she was born. Religion and gallantry have been
wonderfully dressed up in latter days. The ancients were very
scanty in the first and so impolite as to know nothing of the
latter. No wonder indeed since they stuck to simple nature,
which has been improved so much since their time. For
Christianity is super-natural religion, and gallantry super
natural love. It is a wonderfully hard matter to deal with
super-natural things, and therefore we moderns, though in these
affairs we so much exceed poor ignorant heathens, yet for
certain we have more dangers multiplied upon us, and have
reason to take greater care of treading awry. It is as hard to
pick out a right creed and be orthodox, as it is to find the point
of honour and be the nice lover and well-bred man of the ladies.
Letters. 339
Here are rocks we often split upon, which the ancients (bold,
blind fellows) could sail through with all ease. Hardly can one
find any shipwrecks of this kind in the lives of their great men.
Their religion seldom cost them their wits. They could die
without superstitious fears, and have mistresses at a better rate
than the loss of their fame and fortune.
But who am I that censure thus at my ease ? Who am I
that pretend to be a guide, and take upon me to write of
philosophy and the ancients to one so knowing as yourself ? To
answer you in the fashion of our days I will tell you a story.
There was once at Amsterdam a prodigious thick fog, which
came on such a sudden upon the city about exchange time that
not a man could see before his feet. Happy was he that had a
house nigh at hand ; for those who were at a distance knew not
how to get home, and many that attempted it were quickly
over head and ears in the canals, and by their loud outcries
warned others to make a halt. In this distress who, think you,
were the only guides that could happily conduct men to their
homes ? Truly, no other than a poor blind fellow or two, who,
being not at all worse-sighted for the mist, and being well used
to the streets, could walk them in their slow pace as freely now
as at any other time. But now for application of my story.
Business is a strange mist, especially public business, which, as
the affairs of mankind are at present embroiled, is enough to
darken the brightest genius in the world in matters of philosophy
and speculation. These mists, as it happens, are no obstacles to
me ; I have little to do in politics, but in other dark mysteries,
where I have been long poking about my way, blind as I am,
I may chance lend a hand upon occasion to a discerning man,
help him, perhaps, out of the vapours and give him a good
night's rest when he may want it. Is it not just that you, who
lose so much of your rest for the public, should enjoy all the
tranquillity or happiness that philosophy, the muses, or human
wit can present you with ? He were an ungrateful wretch, who,
enjoying his ease and the blessings which these countries owe to
a late prince,1 should have no good witness for the prosperity
and happiness of his best Minister, and, I had almost said, his
1 King William.
340 Letters.
only friend, who, had it not been for that ungrateful service,1
might have enjoyed quiet enough, and at an easy rate, long ere
this might have purchased a much fairer fortune, and sat down
loaded with wealth, free of envy, and without so much as an
enemy in the world. Do not think, however, that I pity you.
Who is there that would not wish for such enemies as yours,
to be beloved and thought of as you are ? A good fame is an
advantage to be set against any loss whatever, nor would
I wish to see you such a philosopher as to abate one tittle of
your passion for that honest fame you are conscious of. All
fame is not alike. There is as much difference as between noise
and music. Mere fame is a rattle to please children, and the
famousest people in the world are famous fools. But the fame
that arises from the consent and harmony of wise and good men
is music, and a charm irresistible to a heroic soul. The fame of
nobility, high stations, warlike feats or conquests, make not a
single note in this symphony. What love was ever gained by
these ? What hearts were ever won in this manner ? But
where extraordinary abilities in public business and a masterly
genius in the chief concerns of a people are joined with a firm
adherence to their interest, and accompanied with a modesty,
sweetness of temper, and obligingness hardly found in those of
the lowest rank ; 'tis no wonder, if the sound of such a fame be
enchanting ; its numbers being thus filled ; its force owing to
judgment, and its increase to esteem and love. Not to be pleased
with such a fame as this, is to have no love for mankind ; for
where love is greatest, there is always most pleasure in a return.
May you still love and enjoy this generous well-born fame. May
you grow every day more conscious, and know and feel your
strength of this kind, so as not to part with one hair of it for all
the deluding Delilahs of a court, which once already has so
barbarously betrayed you. Or should you deliver yourself up to
be bound, let it be with withes only and not ropes, which, like
that Jewish Hercules, you may break with ease. May all other
bonds and fetters prove as easy to you. For liberty of mind is
the highest good a philosophical friend can wish you. And as
1 Lord Somers was impeached under William III., and also his
name was struck off the Commission of Peace on the accession of Anne.
Letters. 341
such a one (for so every one in his way) I pray strenuously for
you " that the same evenness of temper may attend you which
hitherto you have preserved in every state ; that the command
of passion so advantageous to you in public, and with others,
may be of the same use and happiness to you in private with
yourself. That you who make every one easy, may have every
thing sit easy with you, religion, love, honours, greatness. That
courts and mistresses, and all charming things, may be yours, and
not you theirs ; nor any powers have the privilege to call you
theirs except reason and your country. For when you are most
theirs, you will be most your own."
TO LADY PETERBOROUGH.1
CHELSEA, October, 1705.
MADAM, — I never felt the unhappiness of a sickly state so
much as now that I am unable to answer the great honour I
receive from your ladyship in making me (as a family friend) a
sharer with you in your concern for my Lord Mordaunt. 2 I am
sensible of the sad impressions his conduct must have made on
so excellent a mother, whose early concern and constant cares
for a family deserved to have met so much happier success as
they have been extraordinary, and almost without example, in
those of your rank, and so much justice I must do my Lord
Mordaunt, as to own I never saw in a son a truer or perf ecter
return of natural affection. The sense of gratitude, the duty
and veneration he expressed for you on some particular occa
sions in which he honoured me with his confidence when I last
saw him, was one of the most amiable parts I was ever witness
to in a young man, and discovered a tenderness and piety seldom
joined with so much spirit, gallantry, and bravery, as he has
shown to be his character. But the thoughts of Lord
1 Carey, daughter of Sir Alexander Fraser, of Durris, Kincardine-
shire.
2 John, Lord Mordaunt, was the eldest son of the third Earl of
Peterborough. His early letters indicate that he made a confidant of
Shaftesbury. In political life, however, he is known to have moved
the impeachment of Shaftesbury's friend, Lord Somers.
342 Letters.
Mordaunt's merit, so agreeable to your ladyship, at other times
may perhaps only aggravate your grief for him at present, when
you consider the ruin he may have brought upon himself by
disobliging his father, whose severity he has so much reason to
fear. Forgive me, madam, if I say I esteem it even impossible
that my Lord Mordaunt should have cause to fear equally from
your ladyship. Each parent has a several part. The very best
of fathers must yield in tenderness and affection to a mother. I
shall offer little therefore to your ladyship by way of interces
sion for my Lord Mordaunt, persuaded, as I am, of your great
goodness. All that I would willingly add should be, if possible,
to comfort you and alleviate the affliction. But this I fear may
be in vain, if there be no other prospect than of ruin to Lord
Mordaunt, who draws the ruin of his family after him if he falls
a sacrifice to his father's resentment. What comfort or what
advice to offer your ladyship in this most unhappy circumstance
I know not. I am in many respects disabled from interposing
in such . . . concerns of relations, and have nothing left me
here besides a sad condolence. My friendship with Lord
Mordaunt and the concern I have had for him since his very
infancy, the honour and respect I have for my lord his father,
and the inviolable and profound esteem which I have ever
preserved for your ladyship — these surely are sufficient to
make me no slight sharer in your family affliction, which
I think may justly be esteemed a public one, when I consider
what family it is, and not only the past, but the present
and immediate services and merits of the persons that are
concerned.
I must own that when I think of the glorious services Lord
Peterborough1 has performed, and is carrying on still with so
much hazard and disregard to himself ; when I think of his two
sons, whom he exposes no less than he does himself ; and when
I think of the wife and mother of these, who has seen and must
still see all that is dear to her exposed in this manner to perpetual
danger for her country's sake, I cannot at the same time but
think that country very unfortunate if it be under a government
1 Lord Peterborough was at this time conducting a campaign
in Spain.
Letters. 343
that will not think such a case as this worthy its regard. But
surely, Madam, it is far otherwise. We have not only an excel
lent Sovereign,1 but one of your own sex, the best of wives and
best (the most unfortunate) of mothers. Her hand alone can
heal so sad a wound as this. She is a mother of as many
families as her nations hold. But she is more particularly so
to her nobility, and those in her immediate service. Her great
opposite and enemy, the most detestable of princes,2 thinks himself
in policy so much bound to this part that he has long since put
himself upon the foot of being a reconciler of breaches in this
kind, and a restorer of the particular families of his nobility
whom, in general, he has brought to ruin and slavish dependence
on his will. Were this accident at the French Court and either
of the noble families of such importance and service to the Crown,
we should soon see the unhappy breach repaired and the union
of the families made perfect by the prince's favour. I would
not willingly think that any prince's favour or bounty should be
beyond that of our own. Hitherto it has not appeared so, for
we have seen bounty extended even to friendship, and merit has
justified the choice. But nothing can confirm it more than if
the same bounty be seen to extend itself in proportion else
where. And that this will happen so I cannot but have some
hopes, and I beg your ladyship to count this thought as
something, though the suggesting it anywhere else be far out
of my sphere.
An unhappy and uncommon distemper in my lungs has
banished me from the town these several years, and I am hardly
yet recovered of a twelve months' lingering fever, occasioned by
asthma, which a few moments of the town smoke constantly
throws me into, and which I begin already to suffer under, so as
to be forced in a few days to remove some miles farther from it
than I now am. This sad account of myself I am forced to add
to the rest of my tedious letter, lest my declining to act farther
in your ladyship's or your family's service in this particular
should be thought anything else than that utter incapacity
which leaves me no more than the sincere profession of being.
Madam, &c.
1 Queen Anne. 2 Louis XIV.
344 Letters.
TO LORD COWPER.1
ST. GILES'S, 2nd December, 1705.
MY LORD, — I am extremely sorry that at this time especially
I should be forced to apply to you on any account by letter,
when I long so much both to wait on you and to enjoy the
satisfaction of seeing you in a station which no friend of yours
or the public's more truly congratulates with you than I do.
Nor am I so selfish as to trouble you at this time of day with
anything that relates to my interest merely or my family's.
But since the only part left me in public service for these late
years has been my country interest in these parts, where I am
almost single and have to do with a party now more exasperated
than ever, it would be an unspeakable mortification if the Court
should appoint my brother-in-law, Mr. Hooper, for Sheriff, a
young married man newly come to a small estate, his father
being alive, who but a few years since underwent the same
service, and had the burden of Sheriff upon him. At the same
time there stands the first in the list, one Mr. Whitaker, a
gentleman many years ago thought fit to serve, and placed upon
the list, who, if I or my interest have ever served the Govern
ment, has as zealously disserved it, having been, next the Papists
and Nonjurors, one of the fiercest opposers of that interest which
the Government has now owned and countenanced. And at
this happy time of distinction, it would be doubly unfortunate if
one of these (and not the right one) should be taken and the
other left. The affair must instantly be decided, and I humbly
beg your lordship's assistance and protection. — I am, &c.
TO A FRIEND.
ST. GILES'S, 2nd December, 1704 (5).
23rd August, 1704. ..." May you live long and happy in
the enjoyment of health, freedom, content, and all those
William Cowper (1642— ), the first Earl Cowper, was
appointed Lord Keeper on the llth October, 1705. He was the most
prominent person in the negotiations for the union of England and
Scotland, and after it was effected, became (4th May, 1707) the first
Lord Chancellor of Great Britain.
Letters. 345
blessings which Providence has bestowed on you and your
virtue entitles you to. I know you loved me living, and will
preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made
of it is that this life is a scene of vanity, that soon passes away,
and affords no solid satisfaction but in the consciousness of
doing well, and in hopes of another life. This is what I can
say upon experience, and what you will find when you come to
make up the account. Adieu. I leave my best wishes with
you." [John Locke to Anthony Collins.1]
The piece of a letter you sent me savours of the good and
Christian. It puts me in mind of one of those dying speeches
which come out under the title of a Christian warning piece. I
should never have guessed it to have been of a dying philosopher.
Consciousness is, indeed, a high term, but those who can be
conscious of doing no good, but what they are frighted or
bribed into, can make but a sorry account of it, as I imagine.
Now it being my turn to say something in a dying way (for
so, indeed, I am looked upon), I take upon me to send you, as
my disciple, this counter charge.
As for good wishes, you have abundance, though without
compliments. For loving me or my memory, be that hereafter,
as it may prove best for you, or as you can bear it. The use
I would have you make of it is, that our life, thank heaven,
has been a scene of friendship of long duration, with much and
solid satisfaction, founded on the consciousness of doing good
for good's sake, without any farther regards, nothing being truly
pleasing or satisfactory but what is thus acted disinterestedly,
generously, and freely. This is what I can say upon experi
ence, and this you will find sufficient at the last to make all
reckonings clear, leaving no terrible account to be made up, nor
terrible idea of those who are to account with.
Thus runs my charge to you : something different (as you
1 Anthony Collins was an intimate friend of Locke, who shortly
before his death wrote him a letter (Bk.L, Mus. Add. MSS., No. 4290),
of which the closing paragraph is here contained in the context.
Upon this farewell message of Locke, in the accompanying letter to a
friend who had forwarded, Shaftesbury comments in his most
characteristic manner.
346 Letters.
see) from the admired one given by our deceased acquaintance.
Now a word or two by way of remark.
Life is vain ('tis true) to those that make it so. And let
those cry vanity, for they have reason. For my own part, who
never could be in love with riches or the world, nor ever made
any great matter of life, so as to love it for its own sake,
I have therefore no falling out with it, now at last when I can
no longer keep it; so without calling names or giving hard
words, I can part freely with and give it a good testimony.
No harm in it all that I know; no vanity. But (if one wills
oneself) a fair, honest, sensible thing it is, and not so uncom
fortable as it is made. No, nor so over-comfortable as to
make one melancholy at the thoughts of parting with it, or
as to make one think the time exceeding short and passing.
For why so short if not sound and sweet ?1 Why complain both
ways ? Is vanity, mere vanity, a happiness ? or can misery pass
away too soon ? But the sweet is living (it seems), mere living
and doing just the ordinary animal offices of life, which good
manners will not allow one to call by plain names. As for other
offices more immediately human, and of the rational kind, such
as friendship, justice, generosity, acts of love, and such like, the
exposing of life, health, or fortune, spending of it, throwing it
away, laying it readily down for others — for friends, country,
fellow-creatures — these are no happiness ('tis supposed) ; no
solid satisfaction without a reward. Hard, hard duties, if
nothing be to follow ! Sad conditions at the best, but such
as must be complied with for fear of what is worse. —
O Philosophy ! Philosophy ! — I have heard, indeed, of other
philosophy heretofore, but the philosophers of our days are
hugely given to wealth and bugbears; and philosophy seems
at present to be the study of making virtue burdensome and
death uneasy. Much good may do those improvers of misery
and diminishers of all that is good in life. I am contented that
they should cry, Vanity ! For our part, let us, on the contrary,
make the most of life and least of death. The certain way
for this being (as I conceive) to do the most good, and that
the most freely and generously, throwing aside selfishness,
1 cf p. 268.
Letters. 347
mercenariness, and such servile thoughts as unfit us even for
this world, and much more for a better.
This is my best advice ; and what I leave with you, as that
which I have lived and shall die by. Let every one answer for
their own experience, and speak of happiness and good as they
find it. Thank heaven I can do good and find heaven in it.
I know nothing else that is heavenly. And if this disposition
fits me not for heaven, I desire never to be fitted for it, nor come
into the place. I ask no reward from heaven for that which is
reward itself. Let my being be continued or discontinued, as in
the main is best. The author of it best knows, and I trust Him
with it. To me it is indifferent, and always shall be so. I have
never yet served God or man, but as I loved and liked, having
been true to my own and family motto, which is — LOVE,
SERVE.
TO MR. VAN TWEDDE.1
ST. GILES'S, Vlik January, 1705 (6).
I am sorry I should have delayed so long returning an
answer to yours. Yet I have the satisfaction to think I have
been answering it in another way, by doing what you gener
ously recommend to me for the coming interest of the two
nations, on whose mutual friendship and good correspondence
depends not only each other's happiness, but even the happiness
and preservation of all mankind. Though I have with great
grief beheld the sad effects which the misunderstanding between
us this last summer has created: yet I can comfort myself in
this otherwise deplorable case by considering that the causes of
this are of no force or duration, having no real being in them
selves, but like phantoms which a clearer light dispels.
It would imply a mean and unworthy opinion of the
councils of either nation to suppose that personal or private
matters amongst their officers and ministers, should be the sole
occasion of such a misunderstanding as has been breaking out.
No interest ever so great can be set in balance with that which
JMr. Van Twedde was one of the friends Shaftesbury made in
Holland.
348 Letters.
now unites us (even for preservation sake) against a common
enemy. x If any interest stand in competition, it can be only
that of liberty at home; that liberty for which you show so
noble and just a jealousy ; and may those Argus eyes you speak of
be ever open and watchful ; never charmed or laid asleep by any
magic or power of treacherous natives or ambitious foreigners.
I hope I may gain belief with you when I sincerely protest I
cannot be less anxiously careful and concerned for your liberties
than for those of my own country. Nor have I been ashamed
to say it. I had rather see liberty lost here than there, since
here it may be recoverable, but there never. We may be
serviceable to you indeed (as now and formerly) against a
foreign yoke. But against a domestic one, heaven grant we may
be never tried. This service can hardly be reciprocal. You may
deliver us, but not we you. We are a body that cannot move
without our Prince ; and princes are not heroes in this kind. The
greatest security we have against arbitrary attempts in our own
Prince is the despair of success. But when Holland is subjected
the work is fair and inviting at home. Liberty loses its
sanctuary ; the cause of sovereigns sounds instantly in a louder
manner through the world, and he must be indeed a divine and
god-like Prince who can resist such a confederacy, and to the
reproach of other Crowns and absolute Governments remain the
single instance of limited authority and popular control. But
liberty, which with you is perfect, stands safe, and with us that
liberty which we enjoy (and which is all that in nature we are
capable of or should aspire at) is most happily established.
There is nothing can induce our present Court to any attempts
like those heretofore against us. Never was any Prince so justly
confided in on this account as is our present Queen. Her
interests, measures, the foundations of her title and Government,
the bias of her administration, all lie the contrary way, and this
current of affairs tends to secure and confirm the same to us for
futurity. There may perhaps be a Court interest still kept up
against such as are supposed to carry free principles too far.
There may be trimming measures which may keep us uneasy
here at home, and lose many advantages abroad, whilst we
1 France.
Letters. 349
tamper with a false party that must be ever treacherous to
this Government and whatsoever is founded on it ; there may be
feuds and animosities about courtiers' favourites, and the
extravagant gains or supine and insolent behaviour of such as
always cost dear to a Court that will protect them. But as long
as there is in our English Court no formed design against our
liberty (which never can be till there be a formed Tory Ministry),
I dare engage there never can be a thought of attempting any
thing in favour of the Tory interest on your side, never can it
enter into their heads or suit itself with their interests to set up
either Stadtholder, Governor, or Captain General, or any other
form of tyranny. Should any Minister dare meddle in this it
would be found his own rashness, not the act of the Court or
Ministry, who I verily believe would not fail to give satisfaction
upon any discovery of this kind, if any such practice has been or
should be for the future.
But notwithstanding I appear to you thus secure as to any
formal design in our Ministry or Government, yet I must own
still that there are many signs and tokens sufficient to create a
jealousy of some design carrying on, whilst the secret negotia
tions and mysterious behaviour of some great men are attended
with the murmurs of people about the divisions which have
happened on your side during this last campaign. This has been
the occasion of people's penetrating too far and imagining
mysteries much greater than in reality they were. The private
piques between great men (which turned more upon punctilious
ceremonies and little interests of their own than upon any State
policies, of their superior courts or governors) came in this
manner to make a noise. The murmurs on our side, whilst we
attributed all this to the divisions in your State, raised in you
the jealousy of a Stadtholder, or some monster of that kind, as a
uniting project; and the murmurs on your side, which arose in
great measure from this jealousy, raised on our side a jealousy of
a peace secretly being carried on, in which if there were any
tampering on our side, be sure that it must have been the
particular artifice of a private ambition (which will meet with
due treatment if once made public), but not the sense or meaning
either of our Ministry or nation. There is no need I should tell
you that in all our nation the only lovers of Holland are the
350 Letters.
lovers of liberty, called Whigs. The contrary party (the Tories)
are inveterate, and I remember a saying of one of the best and
wisest of our latter patriots, who used often to give it for a rule,
" that if you would discover a concealed Tory, Jacobite, or
Papist, speak but of the Dutch, and you will find him out by
his passionate railing." An instance of this you have in a late
printed speech of a certain lord, whose first pledge of his con
version to another party was his railing at the Dutch. He was
once my particular acquaintance and friend ; but violence of
passion and furious animosities against some great men at Court
have thrown him into a contrary extreme, and he is become
another R T 1. But to return to my point. Holland being
itself free, and joined in interest thus naturally to the free party
in England, in opposition to the tyrannical sort who wish its
destruction, one would think it impossible that the Whigs here
should favour any but those of the same principle with them in
Holland, or that the Whigs of Holland should be jealous of the
Whigs here. But as for our Whigs the case lies thus. They
were delivered, raised, supported by King William, who, what
ever he were to you, was in truth to us the very founder of
liberty, our good lawgiver, and establisher of our state. What
was acted in foreign affairs during the greatest part of his reign
was chiefly by himself, without much privity of his Ministers
here. Those who were raised under him, and by degrees let
into the secret, were of the Whig party, and having no other
inlet but by the King and those of his party in Holland, having
no acquaintance or correspondence but with his friends and
creatures, and having the highest veneration for him and all
that he did, how was it possible but they should be led wrong
and take all their notions perversely from the very original,
whilst they were thus estranged from the Commonwealth party
in Holland, and looked upon the Prince of Orange's interest with
the same eye in Holland as in England, taking all who were in
any degree his enemies to be enemies in the same degree both of
the Protestant religion and common cause ?
This is the unhappiness which to this very day we labour
under, and I wish the misunderstanding were only on our side.
i Probably Sir Richard Temple (1634—1697).
Letters. 351
But there is as unhappy, as fatal, as unjust, and as wrong a
jealousy on your side which helps to estrange the Common
wealth party from ours, and that is a jealousy of a mere common
wealth in England- and the mistrust kof an ambitious temper,
which is too natural in us, and which would more readily break
out under such a form with more advantage against its neigh
bours. I own it. Truth and the love of mankind forces the
confession from me, though to the disadvantage of my country.
But then I will aver that imposture itself can produce nothing
more false, fulsome, and vain than this insinuation that the
Whigs in England think of a commonwealth other than what
they enjoy, or that any other is or can be practicable in
Britain. Yet is this base insinuation the constant means
made use of by our arbitrary party to poison our
Prince's ear and hinder him from confiding in his people. But
the senseless notion is grown at last so stale and common,
after having been so long made use of to serve the purposes of
that party that is, indeed, despised by every one amongst us,
as I doubt not but it is by yourself and all other good patriots
who are as knowing as you are in the common affairs of both
nations. The only labour, therefore, will be on our side to
inform the heads of the honest party, and let them into a better
knowledge of men and things abroad than what they acquired
under their great patron when alive, and now, since his death,
is transmitted to them by his friends and Ministers, with whom
alone they have any correspondence. So that by what I
have said, it will be perhaps less a riddle to you to hear it a
common expression with our Whigs, Alas, what will become of
Holland without a Stadtholder ! so little do they know what
a Stadtholder is, or would prove to their private as well as
to the common cause.
I entreat you, therefore, and your friends not to be alarmed,
or imagine any mystery from such speeches or discourses of our
innocent deluded Whigs, who, as their eyes open, and as they
are better informed, will be far enough from giving their voice
or helping hand to any such pernicious attempt, by which they
would be self-murderers and cut the throat of their own
cause. It is said that a disease is half cured when known. I
have endeavoured to show you the disease. If in time I
352 Letters.
discover any worse than I now suspect, you shall not fail to
hear of it : nor shall I be tender of our Ministry whenever I
discern any foul dealing or tampering in your home affairs.
In the meantime, Heaven grant an undisturbed union and
mutual good correspondence between our Ministers and generals
in the common affairs of both nations, against the common
enemy, whom we may now press on all hands with a happy
prospect of effectually reducing him if we follow our blow, and
stop not our hand after such signal advantages Providence has
given us. But if through private jealousies or hopes or
flattering prospects of separate advantages and the sweet sound
of peace and syren tongues of France (much sharper than their
swords), are able to prevail over us, we and our posterity may
then deservedly and justly groan for ever under greater miseries
and a heavier yoke than any that was ever yet brought upon
the world by those universal monarchies which former ages have
felt. But this judgment I pray Heaven avert. Nor am I one
of the fearful or ill-boding sort, as you know very well. I
am full of hopes, especially when I see such spirits as yours
and your friends, to whom I beg to be recommended for my
hearty affection and acknowledgment of all their favours, and
yourself in particular can never want the assurance of my
being your, &c.
TO JEAN LE CLERC.
ST. GILES'S, 6th March, 1705 (6).
To MONS. LE CLERC, — Having received your eighth tome,1
and read it with great pleasure, I cannot but trouble you with
a letter, though only of thanks; for my eyes, which have not
recovered so fast as the rest of my health, will not allow me to
enlarge as I would willingly do on many particulars, by which
you would see how great an impression you have made on me by
these last writings, and how much your generous love of truth
and liberty procures you true esteem and friendship with those
who are far off from you.
1 Bibliotheque Choisie, 1706.
Letters. 353
Your defence of Buchanan1 will oblige all British men,
and can offend no English but such as are slaves, or in slavish
principles ; and such I reckon can have no property, no country,
nor can be called Englishmen, nor indeed men. For though
I make allowances for that part of mankind who have their
education under a tyranny, and know no other law than absolute
will ; yet for such who have been bred under the government
of laws to desert their privileges and give up their native rights,
seems to me to be an apostacy from manhood ; and such as these
scarce deserve indeed to be treated as men. But of such as
these (I thank God) we see not many coming up in this age
of mankind. There is a mighty light which spreads itself over
the world, especially in those two free nations of England
and Holland, on whom the affairs of all Europe now turn, and
if Heaven sends us soon a peace suitable to the great successes
we have had, it is impossible but letters and knowledge must
advance in greater proportion than ever. There are indeed
inconveniences which for the most part attend all good things,
and liberty of thought and writing will produce a sort of
libertinism in philosophy, which we must bear with. There were
far worse liberties objected to us Protestants at the beginning of
the Reformation than any that can be now objected. For as to
blasphemous enthusiasts and real fanatics we have few or none
very dangerous remaining. And as for Atheists, or such as favour
those hypotheses in philosophy, their manner and phrase is both
modester and more polite, and as such less dangerous ; for I am
far from thinking that the cause of Theism will lose anything
by fair dispute ; I can never (in my opinion) wish better for it
than when I wish the establishment of an entire philosophical
liberty. It is the profane mocking and scurrilous language that
gives the just offence, makes fatal impressions on the vulgar and
corrupt men in another manner than by their reason. And as
this is the only weapon with which we are not fitted to encounter
with such adversaries, so it is the only case in which I would
wish the magistrate to interpose on our side. For I am against
all other appeals thither, both in religion and philosophy,
George Buchanan (1506 — 1582), historian and scholar, a Scotch
man of much learning and literary power.
AA
354 Letters.
thinking it a kind of cowardice and mistrust of our cause to call
for other help, or do anything which look's like a beginning of
delivering over to tlie secular arm.
You must therefore allow me to congratulate with myself
on the liberty of these our days, since, notwithstanding it has
drawn on you the trouble of defending the common truths, and
chiefly that high one of a Deity, yet it is the only occasion that
could have given me such a satisfaction as I have had in reading
your arguments, and seeing the noble ancients (with their noble
follower, our Dr. Cud worth1) so happily and usefully revised.
Nothing but this could have made me not regret the misfortune
of my old acquaintance, Mons. Bayle,2 engaging as he has done
in the matters you mention, out of his sphere. But I am
persuaded that your moderation and temper, joined with your
abilities and better cause, will not only convince others but
advantage even himself. I have not read as yet what he has
written.
I must beg you to accept of a book or two more of ours —
an Euclid and a Greek Testament, which will shortly come to
your hands, and that you will take this, as small as it is, for
a token of my being, &c.
TO MR. STEPHENS. 3
CHELSEA, July I7tfi, 1706.
MR. STEPHENS, — The early apology you made me for your
late unfortunate piece of work gave me indeed some sort of
satisfaction, which might have lasted, had your public apologies
been answerable. As for the book itself, had there been no
indirectness, I could easily have overlooked the rest. I must
1 Ralph Cudworth (1617—1688), who wrote "The True Intellectual
System of the Universe; or, Atheism Confuted" (Lond., 1678), which
was the most critical work of his time in English on the history of
ancient philosophy.
2 Pierre Bayle (1647—1766), author of the famous " Historical and
Critical Dictionary," and a noted sceptical writer.
3 Mr. Stephens was a young clergyman, who was aided by
Shaftesbury, but who published a pamphlet, that involved his friend. —
See letter, 13th December, 1707.
Letters. 355
confess, as I am a plain man myself, I am for serving a cause by
plain means, and can neither write nor speak but as I think ; but
for difference in thought or judgment, no one (I believe) can
make larger allowances than myself.
Your going so contrary to any notions you had drawn from
my conversations would have given me no disturbance. But
since you had so wholly forgot me in your work, you should
have remembered me at least in your recantation, and should not
have given the world to judge that it was from the conversation
of your friends, without distinction, that you received such
impressions as those.
As for the great Lord, l I never had any obligation to him,
though I have done him justice often both at home and abroad,
when his character stood otherwise than it does at present. But
as for the Commoner, he is my old friend, and in young days
was my guide and leader in public affairs ; nor have I ever
broken friendship with him, though different judgments in public
affairs has long broken all correspondence between us. But
were he not or never had been my friend, I have been so much
and so remarkably yours, that I may (though very unjustly) be
judged one of those whose too free conversations you have
complained of, and by seeing you or living with you now,
presently, as I have done heretofore, I may do a great injustice
to myself and others without any real service to yourself. So at
the present, with my good wishes only, I bid you farewell.
TO PIERRE COSTE.2
CHELSEA, October 1st, 1706.
MR. COSTE, — I have been a little out of order lately, or
otherwise you should hardly have had so long a respite as
three or four posts after yours, which proved, as most times, so
1 Probably the Duke of Maryborough.
2 Pierre Coste (1668—1747), a critical writer and French
translator. He was one of the French Protestants who was com
pelled to take refuge in Holland upon the revocation of the Edict of
Nantes in 1685. As tutor of Frank Masham, he resided in England at
Gates, from 1697 to the death of Locke, in 1704. He thus became
356 Letters.
extremely agreeable. You see by that expression of most times
(which in modern breeding should have been always), I am not
afraid to use the simplicity which you and I are admirers of,
and which I may reckon upon as the chief tie of our acquaint
ance and friendship. I am confident I may well call it the
beginning and foundation; and believe in conscience there is
little or no other security or bond of any friendship or liking.
For there is nothing constant but what is simple. All other
relishes are changeable as they are complex and various; and
when mutual relish is gone good-bye friendship and acquaintance.
It becomes us, therefore, to hold our simplicity, as what we think
the only integrity.
I could not but look into Monsieur Dacier1 out of a kind
of insulting malice, to see how he with his Court models of
breeding and friendship would relish that place of Horace, which
you commend so heartily, and to my heart's wish. What says
he to the Sanctior paene ?2 Nothing truly : or at least nothing to
the purpose. For he is ashamed of it in his heart, and therefore
to cover it speciously, he drops this excuse for the ill-bred
modification, that it was pour ne pas offenser la divinite, qui
avoit preside a sa naissance. It is very unnatural to Mons.
Dacier to assign to Horace any religion at all, after he has
represented him as regardless of all religion or religious rites of
his country, as to make an open jest of it, and of all things
sacred in that pretended mock recantation of Epicureanism,
Ode 34, Bk. L, which, in Mons. Dacier 's sense, would be the
poorest triumph and most affected piece of profaneness in the
world, considering the gravity of the ode, and of all those its
fellow odes in honour of the gods, and of the religion then
established. But Mons. Dacier knew little of the simplicity of
well acquainted both with Locke and Shaftesbury. Of Locke's works
he published in French Le Christianisme raisonnable (Amst., 1696
— 1703), Pensees sur 1'education des enfants (Amst., 1698), and Essai
sur 1'entendemant humain (Amst., 1700). He likewise published
Newton's Traite d'optique (Amst., 1720), and Shaftesbury's Essai sur
1'usage de la raillerie (Amst., 1710).
1Oeuvres d'Horace en latin et en franc.ais avec des remarques. —
Par Monsieur A. Dacier, Paris, 1681, &c.
3 Odes IV., XL, 17, 18.
Letters. 357
Horace or measure of his irony. For there is so just a measure
of his irony that nothing is more simple or honest. There is a
due proportion in irony well known to all polite writers,
especially Horace, who so well copied that noted Socratic kind.
Go but a little further with it, and strain it beyond a certain
just measure, and there is nothing so offensive, injurious,* hypo
critical, bitter, and contrary to all true simplicity, honesty, or
good manners. And such would be Horace's 34th Ode if Mons.
Dacier's admired discovery were any discovery at all. But as
for his discovery of Horace's religious fit and delicacy of
devotion, just in the midst of this pleasant and voluptuous
ode, he might, if he had pleased or otherwise known of it, have
told us that without regard to any exterior or superior demon,
the soul or genius itself (the true demon) committed to every
man at his birth, was by the ancients esteemed sacred of itself,
as so committed and entrusted by nature, or the supreme
universal divinity. And this would have shown him a stronger
reason why no man can justly, honestly, or truly pretend to
prefer anything else on earth to this genius of his. For this we
ought to undergo a thousand deaths, rather than suffer it to
be injured, debased, or made miserable ; for by death it is not
made miserable, nor so much as hurt. If not the better (as they
say) it will not be the worse : that is certain in respect of any
one who has such due care and concern for it. Horace for all
this might easily be ready to sacrifice his life for his country, his
friend, or any other cause he liked. He said as much as this to
Maecenas very often, and proved it true at last that he could
not survive him, whether trouble and concern were the occasion
or whether something voluntary, over and above, joined in the
cause of his soon succeeding death. But to tell Maecenas that
his own genius, his own happiness, his own real interest was not
of equal concern to him — nay, that it was not more sacred, more
solemn, and more a matter of concernment, this would have been
as nauseous and silly in those days, and with those persons, as in
reality (and according to theirs and our religion) it is impious
and profane.
*Hic nigrae sucus lolliginis haec est
-/Erugo mera : quod vitium procul afore chartis.
—Sat. I., iv., 100, 101.
358 Letters.
But now that I am got again so deep in Horace's character,
I must needs try if I can give you any better idea of what I
venturously wrote you upon it in that long letter a while ago.
Besides, you tell me that you have time before you ; which I
am glad of, and will recommend to you, therefore, the reading
of some pieces in Horace in a certain order after my fancy,
the better to compare times, and things, and passages, but
without so much as looking into a commentator or thinking
of any that you have ever read.
My notion is that Horace's whole life is clearly and
purposely transmitted to us in his writings,* particularly under
his apologues. And by this mythology I pretend to reveal to
you both his history, chronology, philosophy, divinity, circum
stances, and fortune. But before we come to the point of proof,
I will lay you down my proof.
I take the life of Horace, therefore, and divide it into three
principal states or periods. This is very formal, you see. The
first period is that which I call his orginal free republican state.
His friend and patron during this time was Brutus, who was
head of the cause, and who raised him to the command of a
legion. His philosophy was suitable thereto ; that of Brutus, f
* Lucili ritu —
Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim
Credebat libris, neque, si male cesserat, usquam
Decurrens alio, neque, si bene ; quo fit, ut omnis
Yotiva pateat veluti descripta tabella
Vita senis.— Sequor hunc.— Sat. II.. i., 29—34.
And below
Quisquis erit vitae scribam color. — 1. 60.
And he has been as good as his word, for he has painted himself
in true colours through all his succeeding changes of life. For that
this satire was none of his latter pieces may be seen by his ardour of
writing, which was so well abated afterwards when he wrote Ep. II.,
Bk. II.
f See the two old writers of Horace's life, as well as Horace
himself, S. VI., v. 48, L. I. ; Ep. II., L. II., v. 49 ; also S. I., v. 76,
and Ep. XX., v. 23. In both of these last places, in the last most
demonstrably, he refers to Brutus and the great commonwealths man
with whom he was in war, for after Philippi he made no more
campaigns.
Letters. 359
the old genuine* Academic, or as Cicero says, in reality, the
downright Stoic ; that of his uncle Cato ; that of Laelius, Scipio,
Rutilius, Tubero, and almost all those commonwealths men, as well
as of the new ones, Thrasea, Helvedicus, Soranus, and the rest in
after times. But for distinction sake, let us, if you will, call this
philosophy the Socratic, civil or social. For thus Horace himself
distinguishes, Ep. I., v. 16 : " Nor were there, indeed, any more
than two real distinct philosophies, the one derived from Socrates,
and passing into the old Academic, the Peripatetic, and Stoic ;
the other derived in reality from Democritus, and passing into
the Cyrenaic and Epicurean. For as for that mere sceptic, and
new Academic, it had no certain precepts, and so was an exercise
or sophistry rather than a philosophy. The first, therefore, of
these two philosophies recommended action, concernment in
civil affairs, religion. The second derided all, and advised
inaction and retreat, and with good reason. For the first
maintained that society, right, f and wrong was founded in
Nature, and that Nature had a meaning, and was herself, that
is to say in her wits, well governed and administered by one
simple and perfect intelligence. The second again derided this,
and made Providence and Dame Nature not so sensible as a
doting J old woman. The first, therefore, of these philosophies
is to be called the civil, social, Theistic ; the second, the contrary.
I assert, therefore, that Horace's first philosophy was suit
able to his first patron and cause. Here we have him first
studying at Athens, then fighting upon the same principles at
Philippi, with what success he tells you in pleasant raillery on
himself (Ode the 7th, of Book II.). His military courage
and philosophical were much alike. The shield was thrown
away, and philosophy after it, as a poor defence against
* Ep. II., L. II., v. 45.
t "Quidve ad amicitias, usus rectumne, trahat nos" was the stated
question. See //or., S. VI. of Book II., v. 75. He was of the latter
opinion when he wrote " Oderunt peccare boni virtutis amore," Ep.
L, xvi,, 52. But of the former opinion when he wrote S. III., L. I.,
v. 113, " Nee natura potest justo secernere im'quum."
J So the Epicurean in Cicero treats Providence under the name of
Evvota. See Tully, de Nat. Deor., Lib. L, S. VIII. , page 18. Edit.
Davisannus — Fatidica Stoicorum
360 Letters.
necessity and starving. Here, then, comes Horace's second
period or state, for he soon gets to Court, and this I call
his debauched, slavish, courtly state. His patron Maecenas,
a suitable one, and his philosophy, too, as suitable, being
of the second kind I mentioned. " Naturam expellas furia."
Nature is powerful, and will return when she has fair play.
Horace could not long hold it. The slavish objects, the servile
ties, the abandoned principles and manners, the parasitical tables
(as Augustus calls them in his letter to him), all these, into the
midst of which he was now got, and in which he had served a
more than seven years' apprenticeship, began to work heavily
on his nature. And hence arose his third and last period, viz.,
his returning, recovering state, and his recourse to his first
philosophy and principles, sorely against Maecenas and the
Court's desire, who would have kept him, and did all they could
to do so, but in vain.
Now, therefore, for the distinguishing of these states or
periods, I would advise you to begin first by the third satire of
the first book, which is the strongest in his new way, and most
pointed against the civil and Theistic philosophy. " Cum pro-
repserunt " (v. 99), and " Jura inventa metu" (v. 3), are decisive
and characteristic. And indeed the first, second, and fifth, seem
to be so too, especially that fifth, as you may see in the end.
There is no need to read more of it. Nor is that fourth to our
purpose, being all critical and not moral. So that the third, the
first, and second being only what you are to read entire, you will
be pleased to observe, that though the third be the most positive,
yet the first and second will negatively show you the same
thing, I mean that by the faintness of the philosophy, and the
absence of all that strenuous and round dealing with vices, which
afterwards in his life you will perceive, it is apparent that the
pieces are of that same school and formed upon a Court
philosophy, so that the placing of these first satires is apt enough
to my purpose. Nor is there any one in all the first book which
I assign to Horace's immediate returning state, though the sixth
looks very much that way. The first plain one of that
kind, though this be but barely a beginning or tendency, is
satire sixth of book the second ; where you will see Horace
begin to sicken, and may easily find which way his pulse
Letters. 361
beats. But before you come to read this, I would wish you to
read epistle the fifth, where he is in his exulting state; and
epistle the 15th, especially towards the latter end, where he
begins, you will see, to be a little sensible of his case : and then,
if you please, Ep. XVII. ; where, like a master in that parasitical
way, he gives precepts very satisfactorily, and at his ease ; but
in the immediate following one, the 18th, with more diffidence
and mortification, v. 86, "Dulcis inexpertis cultura potentis amici."
—For he had now, as we say, bit upon the bridle, and had
received sufficient check.
Hence, now comes the third and last turn of Horace, viz.,
his recovering, returning state. In this I consider him (by a
subdivision) as beginning and as determined. To his beginning
and first entrance I refer this last-mentioned letter, viz., the
18th, together with which I would have you now read that
before-mentioned satire, the 6th, of book the 2nd, which piece
will begin to give us the first light. For now Horace begins to
get light himself. I ought to have promised to you, that as to
the first state or period of Horace's life, we have no *writings.
For it was, in fact, necessity only and misery, after the fatal day
of Philippi, that made him (as he f faithfully and honestly tells
you) turn poet for bread. But now he began to see that his
bread was too dearly earned ; and now comes his conversion or
restoration. Here it is that by my fables I pretend to discover
Horace, and lay open his secret. As soon as ever Horace
comes to fables he is dipt. He dares only tell his mind in fables.
*As for the 7th S. of B. I. the fact related was indeed before the
battle of Philippi, but so little before, that by considering only times and
circumstances, and Horace's station and character under Brutus, it is
easily seen that the relation and farce itself must have been written some
time after that revolution in the . . . State, which made such a
terrible revolution in Horace. This was one of his first lewd pieces,
for so I may call it, not only with respect to its scurrility and
buffoonery, but as a reproach and disgrace, was not very becoming in
one who was an outlaw himself in the same cause, and the bringing in
the brave Brutus's name on this occasion was not so very suitable to
his general's and patron's dignity. Rupilius, a Praetor, with the
rude Persius, however ridiculous, were no insignificant helpers in the
cause- t See Ep. II., Bk. II., v. 51.
362 Letters.
All his fable-pieces are of the third period, They are in all
seven. Two of them are but slight touches. The rest are
formal apologues fully and distinctly told. All mean that same
thing. If you have the moral of one, you have it of all. One
key serves to all the locks. The first, which is that of the
mice in Sat. VI., Bk. II., you have read, I dare say, often enough
in your life. But now I pray you read once again. For when
formerly you read it you little thought perhaps that ever
Maecenas should have been meant by the city mouse and Horace
by the poor frighted country one. But so I will show it to
you. Go, therefore, now straight after having read all the rest,
as desired of you, in order, and concluded last of all with this
epistle and fable of the mice; go, I say, directly to Ep. II.,
Bk. II., notwithstanding this be a little out of order. For
this epistle is one of the last pieces in our subdivisions; and,
if I am right, must have been one of the latest of Horace's
life. However, that you may see the thing plainer, go to that
contrary extremity, and see Horace writing to a friend, not
to Maecenas, nor under that heavy burden of a seeming obliga
tion, but to an indifferent person, to whom, without offence, he
could tell his griefs and positive resolution of retirement.
Hear, therefore, his second apologue, or story of Lucullus's soldier
(which is honest Horace himself), v. 26. The moral and applica
tion of which begins at v. 41 and so to v. 54 inclusive, but
which is not perfect and declaratory till afterwards, v. 141. :
" Nimirum sapere est abjectis utile nugis." For, as Lucullus's
soldier has done with fighting, so Horace renounces writing.
The cause ceases and the effect is taken away. But what
cause ? Horace is at ease. He has got his zona (his estate)
again. Ah ! many thanks to Maecenas. And will he leave
Maecenas then ? Will he retire and slight him ? Is not this
ungrateful ? Let us hear Horace answering for himself.
And now, therefore, if you please, go to the third and fourth
apologue, and read with wondrous care (for this is the most
wondrous, nice, and artful piece that perhaps was ever written
in the world) the seventh epistle of Book I. Here the apologue
of the fox and weasel is first related, and is put with all the
force imaginable for Maecenas against Horace. But by that
following story of Vulteius, he sets all right, and shows Maecenas
Letters. 363
that the effect (as I told you) ceases from another cause. His
mind is no longer the same that it was. Had he ever so little
estate he would now retire and philosophise. Though not a
word of philosophy all this while to Maecenas. It is a paw- word,
as they say, and though he asserts the thing itself thus plainly,
yet he uses other names of liberty and rest, for philosophy
was too shocking, too harsh an idea for the soft Maecenas. Yet
does not Horace abate one tittle of his right. " If you upbraid
me," says he ; " Maecenas, if you reproach me for ingratitude
take back your gifts." " Cuncta resigno," v. 34. " Magis apta tibi
tua dona relinquam," v. 43, apt indeed for you a great man, an
Atridas, not apt for poor Ithaca, such a mind as mine, naturally
mean and simple, and now at last returned into so homely and
rough a philosophy, out of which and a tolerable contented state
of poverty, you, Maecenas, debauched me, as that orator Philip did
Vulteius. For it was not out of mere hunger that I got
cunningly and fox-like into your granaries. I was enticed,
corrupted, and drawn. Nor is it at this time a bellyful and
plenty merely that keeps me from making court to you, as
having got what I wanted. It is not this makes me desire to be
at liberty, as if I only meant a life of indolence through a kind
of surfeit of pleasure, but no real dislike rest and liberty above
either pleasures or riches, or all that the Indies and Arabia can
afford one. If you believe it not, try me, I beseech you, once
again in honest poverty. Leave me but where you found me.
Let me be empty again, lean and hungry as I was, when out of
Court, and see if you can catch me there by the same baits a
second time."
To make this still plainer (if by this time it will not be
plain enough), pray go now to the fifth and sixth apologue in
Ep. X., of Book I. The first is (as I told you) one of the slight
touches, but it is a plain one. Horace has had enough of Court
diet. The Pontificum coenae,1 which he mentions in one of his
odes as so very rich and sumptuous, were at the same time very
surfeiting, it seems. He had served an apprenticeship, and as
the Dutch servants are said to leave their masters for being
forced to eat salmon and other fish, which in midland countries
1 Ode XIV., Bk. II., 1. 28.
364 Letters.
are esteemed such rarities, so Horace was now a runaway from the
Court delicacies, " Utque sacerdotis fugitivus liba remso," v. 10.
After which follows the sixth apologue, a plain one, v. 34, where
you may see how uneasy Horace is under his rider, and would
gladly be at grass again, and turned wild, stripped and naked,
into the wild field, at all adventures, either of starving or being
beaten up and down and pestered by the stag, his enemy. For
this was but a slight sore, and tolerable in comparison with the
royal saddle and management, and all the several airs he was
forced to go in this courtly academy under his princely riders.
Better it was to labour and search in the old Socratic * academy
for truth and wisdom, whatever it cost. Better it was, as
Horace now thought, to study quietly for his mind's sake,
though he should starve, than for the entertainment of others
and to delight the over-dainty and curious f palates of Maecenas
and the Court. Indeed the Court (to come to my seventh and
last short fable) may in another respect be well called the lion's
den (see Ep. I., Bk. I., v. 73), and which even in our days and in
our nation proves we see but too fatal to all good patriots,
especially old Whigs such as was Horace.
But I have now made my letter long enough, and have
set you (I think) a round task; I hope, however, not of an
unpleasant kind, so that if you find nothing at the bottom of
what I have written there is no loss, for reading Horace, though
ever so often over, can never be a loss.
I had forgotten to tell you that after all this course of reading
I have set you, you may do well to read over Sat. VII. of Bk. II.,
and then Sat. III. of the same book, to see how artfully Horace
(as in his first epistle of Bk. I.) covers his rigid philosophy,
which ere this he in reality was returned to, but would give it
an air of raillery. In both these satires, as also in that short
epistle, the eighth to Celsus, you will see Horace painted to the
life, as he was in the second period, with all his vices, from which
and from his lewd poetry he was now getting free, and shifting
the best he could. Here therefore I must desire you in the last
place to read over Ep. I. of Bk. I., and note v. 10, " Nunc itaque
* See Ep. II., Bk. II., v. 45.
f Denique non omnes eadem mirantur. — Ep. II., Bk. II., v. 58.
Letters, 365
et versus et cetera ludicret pono." Here you will see his struggle
and hard labour to get clear of the Court pleasures. And if the
word pleasures surprise you, see how thoroughly, and as one
may say revengefully and spitefully he treats pleasure (even
love and mirth) in his bitter irony at the end of Ep. VI. of Bk. I.,
which is one of the most puzzling as to philosophy, because it
seems in the beginning to favour the anti-theistical sort, by
speaking against amazement and astonishment about the order
of the heavens, as if it were after the Lucretian or Epicurean
kind. But it is strongly of the other sort, and means quite
another thing, as I could show you at leisure out of Cicero,
Seneca, and those copies of ancient Socratic philosophy, from the
originals of which Horace drew his, when he was either in or
towards this his third period.
And now at last when you have read all this, and under
gone this college (as they say in Holland) upon Horace's works
after my peculiar notion, if you think it not merely whimsical,
you will have a full proof from the story and life of Horace, as
well as from his ever visible candour and ingenuity, that he did
not make that solemn ode of his (the 34th, I mean, of Bk. I.)
as a scurrilous mockery of buffoonery against the Socratic
philosophy, against virtue, against religion, or the established
religious rites of his country. But that it was actually a truth,
and a sincere one in his mouth, that he had, to his sorrow,
" Parcus deorum cultor et infrequens," by having fallen from his
first principles, with which he began the world; but that in
process of time, after having experienced all that pleasures
and a Court with looser morals and a more flattering
philosophy could afford him, he did at last "Retrorsum vela
dare atque iterare cursus relictos." Nor was it necessary
that Horace in such a recantation as this should treat religion
any otherwise than according to the vulgar notions. It had
been ridiculous to philosophise profoundly in the ecstasy and
rapture of an ode. Enthusiasm could never be more becoming
than here ; and it is in this spirit that this ode is written.
What are all his other religious odes and secular poems ? Nor
was it merely as a poet that he had the liberty of being
enthusiastic. Did not the graver philosophers — the Pytha
goreans, the Platonicians, and the rest — accommodate their
366 Letters.
notions to the vulgar, and treat these matters KCLT
as the term of art was with the Stoics. Who spoke of fortune
more than they ? Who apostrophised her more, or treated her
more freely and poetically, describing her mutability, incon
stancy, and, as it were, triumphing over her ? Yet was not
this esteemed as in the least detracting from Providence. The
greatest irregularities of fortune were from appointment and a
regular control. Fate was in all, and fortune was subordinate
to Providence. It was Providence itself, but in another view.
Though when these philosophers spoke of fortune more
philosophically and scholastically, it then stood indeed as
opposite to order and divine appointment, and in that sense
they denied there was any such thing in nature as accident,
blind chance, or fortune. But if fortune had been understood
by the vulgar in an Epicurean sense, as opposite to Providence
and rule, how could temples have been erected and worship
paid to her as to a deity ? For she could not for her part be
an Epicurean idle deity. She was either no deity or an active
one, and had her name, notion, and description from activity,
and a mind either good or bad, favourable or mischievous.
Therefore, for Horace's not solving the phenomena of the winds
and of thunder, like a cool philosopher, and for his speaking
of fortune in a vulgar way, as he does here in this ode, it need
create no difficulty with one who knows ever so little of the
ancients. There can be nothing more natural, if we leave it
to natural judgment, and not to the learned art of critics,
whose only business is to improve difficulties and confound the
most ordinary plain sense of authors, in order to say something
extraordinary themselves.
TO TERESIAS.1
ST. GILES'S, November 29th, 1706.
. . . So much for myself and private affairs, temporal
and spiritual, as you are friend and father in both senses.
Now as to the public and the affairs of Scotland. You ask
1 Evidently a pseudonym borrowed from Teresias of Thebes, the
seer in Greek tragedy.
Letters. 367
my opinion (father !) — you shall have it, and it will savour
more (I fear) of the philosopher than the politician.
It is long since that I spoke to you with so much boldness
and assurance in public affairs, even where all mankind almost
were doubters, that you may easily take me for one of a very
decisive and presumptuous judgment. But as in philosophy so
in politics, I am but few removes from mere scepticism, and
though I may hold some principles perhaps tenaciously, they
are, however, so very few, plain, and simple that they serve to
little purpose towards the great speculations in fashion with the
world. That there should be a balance of power in the world
is one of the plain principles which the world (thank God) is
pretty well possessed of in this rising age. That the balance
should for the good of mankind be composed not of a few, but
as many powers as is possible, is as simple and as just a
principle, but not so generally understood, much less when so
reduced as to bring these smaller powers or sovereignties
within the limits of cities, and those too of no enormous bulk
of widely extended territory. Such powers as these, united
by confederacy, or standing league (as of old the Grecian cities
by the Achaian, and at this day the German circles, Swiss
cantons, and Dutch states), are doubtless the most perfect and
according to nature; but how ineffectual to preserve a general
balance against greater and more unnatural sovereignties when
such appear in the world, history and reason will in good
measure show us.
When the confederate Greeks had only barbarian powers
around them, the vastest of those powers was unable to destroy
them ; but when a neighbouring petty Prince by their commerce
and practice grew polite, though with a slender proportion of
extended dominion, he soon found means to conquer them and
lay the foundation of an universal empire, for want of some
other power or more such powers to oppose to him.
The Roman Commonwealth by the same means grew, though
more slowly (Carthage being the check), yet more fatally on the
world ? You may wonder perhaps that I should have such high
thoughts of my own country as to believe that should they fall
into a Commonwealth, they would immediately tread the same
fatal path of greatness. The over-generous spirits infused by
368 Letters.
popular government into so vast a body so framed and situated
would soon I fear employ themselves and give disturbance to
Europe. But as we are happily controlled by the nature of our
mixed government, there is little danger from England, or even
from Britain, as formidable as we may fancy ourselves in such
a union.1 Nothing can be happier for Europe and mankind than
that this island should in respect of government remain as it
is constituted. Should it degenerate into absolute monarchy,
Europe could have no relief from it, but remaining as it is it
will retain the same power as well as interest to preserve the
balance. And in effect it is this power that in two succeeding
ages has broken the two only powers2 which have bid fair
for universal monarchy since the destruction of the Romans.
To which of these effects, therefore, will this union probably
operate ? Not to a Commonwealth, surely ? This is the least fear.
And if so, much less will there be fear of our giving disturbance
or jealousies abroad. We shall have employment enough at
home for our high spirits, and mismanagement and disorder
enough to keep us from such an increase of trade and wealth as
to swallow up our neighbours. The Dutch are safe. Let them
beware of getting a Court amongst themselves. A Court here
will be a sure hostage for their trade ; whilst luxury and
corruption reigns on our side, frugality and public good on theirs.
But how stands it on the other hand ? What danger from
the union as to our monarchy's growing absolute ? Here, father,
comes my doubt and scepticism. If disunited, a Continent-war
and standing force ; if united, a Parliament faction and standing
pensioners threaten our constitution. But a war3 I fear we
must have, whichever way it go. Our Court has cast the die.
The Rubicon is past, and whether is it not better for us to
engage with them after union than when disunited ? In the
latter case we have injustice, in the former justice, of our side.
In one way should we have success, it would be a conquest, in
the other only a rebellion suppressed; which of these two may
be made the fatal use of is the only consideration remaining.
And humanity, methinks, would incline one's judgment to that
1 The Union of England and Scotland. 2 Spain and France.
3 War with Scotland.
Letters. 369
side where least blood is like to be spilt, though more cruelty
perhaps exercised, as when a rebellion is suppressed and the
conquered treated as traitors, not as enemies.
TO LORD SUNDERLAND.1
ST. GILES'S, 7th December, 1706.
MY LORD, — When the public is so happily served, and the
highest wish I ever had for my country is fulfilled, in your being
of the Ministry, I have no reason to regret my banishment from
affairs, except only the loss of so sensible a pleasure as it would
be to me to congratulate with you, attend on you, and see you
act a part so advantageous to all mankind, and so rejoicing to
those in particular who have early bound themselves your
friends. For my own part, to whom you have allowed so strong
a title to that honour, it is impossible for me to be wholly silent
on such an occasion, and though it be my greatest pride that
amongst all your lordship's friends you have not any one more
disinterested than myself, or that shall trouble you less on
account of those favours which that station empowers you to
confer; yet as there is one, and only one, concern of that
kind which I have had at Court, your lordship must hear it
and be troubled with me once for all, for when I have told my
story I have done.
Your lordship knows that after I first quitted the public
service on account of my ill health, I returned again to it as
unfit as I was, and in the last year of the King's reign exerted
all the interest and power I had in his service and that of his
sinking friends, not without the flattery of having in some
measure succeeded. As the greatest service at that time lay in
the elections, and as my province was the hardest, though one
the most of consequence of any, so it was impossible for me to
do all myself, without the help of friends. I had some that had
good fortunes of their own, and these I made yoke-fellows with
1 Lord Sunderland was a prominent Whig and the youngest member
of a Whig junta, which included also Lords Somers, Wharton, Halifax,
and Orford. On the 3rd December, 1706, he became Secretary of
State, thus being the first of the Whigs to receive office under Queen
Anne.
BB
370 Letters.
me and obliged them to employ those fortunes as I did my own
without other regards. But I had, together with these other
friends, one young gentleman in particular who had his
fortune to make, and had fixed on the army for that purpose.
I turned him from it; having the prospect of the King's
favour for him; which I obtained in the promise of a small
place, on which he kissed the King's hand just before his death.
As sad a time as followed afterwards to all that loved the King's
memory or the Queen's real interest, yet being conscious to
myself of no ill merit towards Her Majesty, and of much the
contrary to my Lord Marlborough himself, I applied to him,
and solicited a favour1 which was allowed to several others
in the same circumstances in consideration of the King's promise.
But I met with hard usage, not in this respect merely, but in
many things of a very public nature,2 which I have perfectly
acquiesced in, and should now think myself even highly
recompensed and obliged if I obtained but this promise of old
date for my suffering friend. My entreaty to your lordship
is only to present a letter from me to my Lord Duke, which
I would not offer any other way than as presuming on your
friendship. This will be the only trouble I shall give your
lordship, for I shall do no more than represent my case. I am
not unwilling to be obliged to a Ministry, now your lordship
is of it. I know not whether I am worth obliging ; but I believe
nobody can be obliged at less cost. As much as I am removed
from business in the higher part of the world, I have still a
little interest in the country where I live; and it happens that
the corner where I am confined is a very important one to
England, and has often very nearly proved so in a fatal sense.
If I do little good, I flatter myself I can prevent some harm,
and may one day or other be found useful in this respect, which
whilst your lordship is in affairs would be more particularly
my happiness, as one who would rejoice to show how much
he ever was, my lord, your lordship's most, &c.
1 The appointment of his protege, Micklethwayt, to an office.
2 On the accession of Queen Anne Lord Shaftesbury was deprived
of the Vice- Admiralty of Dorset, a small office which had been in the
family for three successive generations.
Letters. 371
TO THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.
ST. GILES'S, *7tk December, 1706.
MY LORD, — I should still have looked on myself as too
inconsiderable to be remembered by your grace had you not
been pleased to mention me with favour when my Lord Somers
did me the honour to speak to you of a concern of mine.1 It
was soon after the Queen's coming to the crown that I applied
to your grace on behalf of a friend, who just before the King's
death2 had his promise for a small place that was vacant. Others
in the same circumstances had benefit of the King's promise, by
Her Majesty's great goodness. But it was my misfortune to
receive both in this and other respects very distinguishing
marks of Her Majesty's displeasure, though conscious of having
otherwise deserved. I should, however, at this hour esteem
myself highly honoured and obliged in all respects by this small
mark of favour, but if there be difficulty I shall press no further
on your grace or any other that have the honour to serve the
Queen, being easily satisfied of the little value of my services or
interest, and that I have only flattered myself in thinking I was
worth being remembered by your grace, as having been very
early and constantly, my Lord, your grace's most zealous,
humble servant.
TO LORD SOMERS.
ST. GILES'S, January, 1706 (7).
MY LORD, — I know you will forgive me if without any
apology I continue to communicate every little matter which I
think of the least moment to the public, since I think it of
the greatest that you should have knowledge of everything.
Enclosed therefore is a memorial relating to an affair of which
I talked much with your lordship, and had a disagreeable
prospect. I own there is nothing so disagreeable to me as what
carries with it the least prospect of disunion between Protestant
Powers, especially those two great nations on whom the liberty
1 Micklethwayt's appointment.
2 King William died 8th March, 1702.
372 Letters.
and happiness of mankind depends ; and your lordship, who is so
much the promoter and author of our home union, will ever,
I know, be solicitously concerned for that foreign union and
correspondence on which the good effect both of that and all
other public labours must depend.
The memorial was by some considerable hands given to my
Lord Duke of Marlborough at his coming last away.
What notice he may take of it I cannot tell. It is
but a random aim. There will be every year stronger
endeavours, and if something be not done to give hope from
this side, the more impatient provinces will get the better
and force that of Holland to consent to such a charge on
our corn and other commodities as I dreadfully fear may in
time breed ill blood, for our advantages are prodigious by that
free import we have there, and were it otherwise, yet when we
see (as I hope soon) the glorious day of a British union,1 we
need less insist so hardly with them on the point of trade, when
our advantages will be to ourselves and in the eye of Europe so
mighty and increasing.
Now, my lord, as to my private concern ; with many very
sincere acknowledgments for your friendship and kind advice, I
have done as you directed me, and shall continue to do ;
depending absolutely on your guidance and further instruction,
and hoping I may deserve this kind treatment by the sense I
have of it, and being so sincerely as I am, my lord, your
lordship's most faithful and obedient humble servant.
TO MONS. BASNAGE.2
ST. GILES'S, 2Ist January, 1706 (7).
SIR, — It would be a great satisfaction to me on any terms
to have the honour of writing to you, but you have made it
satisfactory in the highest degree by the manner of your writing,
and the occasions you have given me. I take withal the privilege
xThe Union of England and Scotland took place May 1st, 1707.
2 A French Protestant who resided in Holland owing to the
revocation in 1685 of the Edict of Nantes.
Letters. 373
which you allow me of writing in my own language, and esteem
it as an honour to my country that you should have given
yourself the pains of adding this our language to your store of
knowledge and better learning.
I know not whether I should easily give way to my grief
for the loss of our common friend, Mons. Bayle,1 on which you
have so kindly condoled with me, but that the subject of public
concernment which you have joined with it is an obligation
on me not to dwell too long on my private sorrows. For
in this case I must own my private loss makes me think
less of that which the public has sustained by the death
of so great a man. This weakness friendship may excuse,
for whatever benefit the world in general may have received
from him, I am sure no one in particular owed more to
him than I, or knew his merit better. But that I should
thus have esteemed him is no wonder. The prejudices raised
against him on account of his sentiments in philosophy could
not be expected to raise scruples in those who were no ways
concerned in religious matters, but that the hard reproaches
of the world against him on this account should not have been
able to lose him the friendship of so great and worthy an actor
in the cause of religion as yourself, this, I must own, is highly
generous and noble, and to be acknowledged not only by all
lovers of Mons. Bayle, but of truth and philosophical liberty.
Nor can anything, in my opinion, more discover the firm trust
you have in the merits of your excellent cause, or the thorough
consciousness you have of your own sincerity in it, than the
being willing thus to do justice to the memory of a friend, who in
whatever respect esteemed erroneous, had undeniably such quali
ties and virtues as might grace the character of the most orthodox
of our age. I know very well that it is in religion and philosophy,
as in most things, that different opinions usually create not only
dislike, but animosity and hatred. It was far otherwise between
Mons. Bayle and myself, for whilst we agreed in fundamental rules
of moral practice and believed ourselves true to these, the
1 Pierre Bayle died in 1 706. As the pioneer of the French
enlightenment he was deemed extremely sceptical by his orthodox
contemporaries.
374 Letters.
continual differences in opinions and the constant disputes that
were between us, served to improve our friendship. I had the
happiness to see that they lost me nothing of his ; and I know
my own increasing every day as my advantages increased by
his improving conversation. I may well say improving in every
respect, even as to principles in which the enemies of Mons.
Bayle would least of all allow him the character of a promoter.
But if to be confirmed in any good principle be by debate and
argument, after thorough scrutiny, to re-admit what was first
implanted by prevention, I may then say, in truth, that what
ever is most valuable to me of this kind has been owing in
great measure to this our friend whom the world called sceptical.
Whatever opinion of mine stood not the test of his piercing
reason, I learned by degrees either to discard as frivolous, or not
to rely on with that boldness as before; but that which bore
the trial I prized as purest gold. And if that philosophy,
whatever it be, which, keeping in bounds of decency, examines
things after this manner, be esteemed injurious to religion or
mankind, and be accordingly banished from the world, I can
foresee nothing but darkness and ignorance that must follow.
I think the world, and in particular the learned world, much
beholden to such proving spirits as these. And for my own
part I even place to Mons. Bayle's account those excellent things
written by other hands in defence of truths which he gave
occasion to re-examine. What injury such a one could do the
world by such a search of truth with so much moderation,
disinterestedness, integrity, and innocency of life I know not;
but what good he did I in particular know and feel, and must
never cease to speak and own. You will forgive me this sally
of zeal in behalf of my deceased friend, since you have in a
manner invited me to it by the generous notice you have
taken of him, and the unexpressible satisfaction you have
given me in the account of his last days, and his philosophical
character, so deserving and in every respect so like himself, as
I expected.
It would be inexcusable in me to be wanting in any
office of private friendship, being excluded so much as I am
from the public service by my ill-health, which will not suffer
me in the winter and chief season of business to live in or
Letters. 375
near our capital city, where coal is burnt, so that I am half
banished from society and civil life, except when I am abroad
in your towns of Holland where turf-fuel is used, which is
as medicinal to me as the other is destructive. But happily
before I left the neighbourhood of London (which was not
till the latter end of November) I received letters from some
iriends of your nation and our common religion, which both
instructed me and put me on the agreeable service of soliciting
ia this cause.
I represented the concern to those of our great men with
vhom I had any influence, and I can assure you I found in them
all the good disposition that can be wished towards the service
of the French Protestants against the time of peace or whenso
ever any treaty of that kind advances. Our Ministry grows
every day more Protestant. All attempts at further separation
bstween Protestant communions are vanished, and the spirit of
moderation and union prevails, so that all animosity ceasing,
which was kept up against those who conformed not to
Episcopacy, there is no handle left of contempt or reproach
against our fellow-Protestants abroad, whose interests it will be
esteemed as an honour to our Ministry to pursue, and I dare
hope they have it in their thoughts to make a merit of it in the
end. For as strong as our Ministry is, and as deserving as are
the favourites and great men of this reign, they all know that
without an honest popularity and good esteem with the
generality of Englishmen, no power can support them long in
England. Therefore, besides their principles and good inclina
tions, it is to be hoped their interests, when well considered, will
lead them to act honourably in this affair. I could carry this
assurance so far, upon these foundations, that supposing the war
were only between France and us, and that we were but near an
equal match, I am persuaded that, as many heavy years of war
as we have had, we should under such a Ministry and so
excellent a Queen sustain it joyfully whole years longer, and
push it the most hazardously for the sake of that single
glorious article of restoring the Protestants in France, which
the Bishop of Salisbury with deserved applause on our solemn
thanksgiving day before Queen and Parliament gloriously
asserted, not speaking (as may be well presumed) on such
376 Letters.
an occasion without foreknowledge of approbation to that and
other terms of peace, which he there recommended and gave
hopes of. The sermon indeed is worthy of being read abroad,
that it may be seen what noble principles are asserted before
crowned heads themselves, which is no less an honour for such
free crowns, that are so happy and secure by the common benefit
of those laws and that liberty which they enjoy together with
the people of whom they are the head. A small encourage'-
ment from the Court will make our people contribute thei:
utmost in the cause of religion. Nor is England so cautious
or apprehensive of a religious war. They have not the same
regards for Catholic allies as the Protestant Powers abroad.
But above all things, and for the sake of that religion itself,
which is so dear to us, we are bound to cultivate in the strictest
manner our friendship with the States General. Now, thougii
their zeal for religion be equal to ours, yet their views in this
respect will be probably very different. Nor do I attribute this
to our greater zeal for religion, but to our blindness in policy
and interest of State. For as they who are a wise nation know
their strength to consist in numbers of people, especially such as
are religious and industrious, we for our parts, whether through
the jealousy of our Churchmen on account of their Episcopal
form, or whether through a natural inhospitality and aversion
to strangers, by whom we have formerly more than any nation
been infested, whatever it be, we no way care for any foreigners
coming to settle amongst us, and for this reason shall in all
likelihood be the more forward in the generous part of securing
to the French Protestants the possession of their religion in their
own country. But if the States General, through better policy,
greater caution and foresight, and more necessary regard to their
Catholic allies, cannot in this point come up so high as we
whom nature by our situation has made so independent, and
by our temper so little desirous of advantage, and increase by
foreigners; what then shall be done in this case for the poor
French Protestants ? How shall we solicit, or what ask ? For
to make war, or continue it so much as one hour, on that single
article of restoration of religion in France, is hardly with any
assurance or hope to be proposed to the great men of the
Government where you are. But if nevertheless it be soundly
Letters. 377
pressed, and enforced and well solicited (since it is no more than
just), it may produce some equivalent, or at least some terms or
proposals which compassion and shame may inspire : so as that
the Protestant interests may not be so absolutely abandoned as
at the last place, when it was not so much as thought of. You
know it is a maxim somewhere that more tJian right should be
asked to the end that mere right may be obtained. But this is
no more than mere right which is asked, and may therefore be
better urged with modesty; and should it produce only such
terms for the French Protestants as might gain those who are
detained their liberty, and those who are escaped their estates,
the United Provinces would have chiefly the benefit of it, and
might reap this great advantage without the envy of England,
who will be wholly neglectful of its interest in this respect, and
do nothing (I fear) either by way of naturalisation or any other
encouragement towards so advantageous a settlement. And this
I should think might have its force with the great men of your
Government. In the meantime you may do well to make use of
our zeal for a restoration, and excite others by this example,
which I hope we shall give very remarkably whensoever any
negotiations or treaties are set on foot.
Nothing, I assure you, shall be wanting in me so far as I am
able to press and solicit so pious and glorious a design ; as if I
had the perf ectest hope or assurance of success even in that very
degree.
I thank you for the light you have given me as to former
negotiations on our part ; and I doubt not but by further search
you may find other instances of England's like concernment in
the Protestant interests abroad, during the reign of Queen
Elizabeth especially, who put herself at the head of the
Protestant cause, and whose example may very becomingly be
applied at any time to our good Queen and her present Ministry,
should you have occasion of making any representation or
memorial.
These are the best thoughts which in my poor capacity
I am able at present to give you. My zealous endeavours shall
not be wanting to the utmost of my power in a cause I can
never be ashamed of, nor afraid to serve. — I am, with particular
respect, Sir, your most humble servant.
378 Letters.
TO JOSEPH MICKLETHWAYT.
ST. GILES'S, \\ili January, 1706 (7).
DEAR Jo, — You may wonder to see a letter from me at last,
after promising so long to write to you, but not having been
able to keep my word. Indeed, ever since my sickness, upon
my leaving you in Holland, I have had so ill eyes that I have
been forced to break almost all my correspondence except with
good Mr. Furly, who is so kind as to accept of an ill-written
line or two, and that but seldom, in return to many obliging
and full letters, on many subjects. However, I hope your
brother has not been wanting to do me justice in letting you
know how constantly and kindly I remember you on all
occasions. And to say truth, nothing could have hindered me
writing to you since my eyes and health have been better, but
that lately I have been endeavouring to do your brother a
considerable piece of service, on which his coming over to you
(as he has designed) has very much depended. And I still
have some hopes of effecting my purpose, or else should not be
accessory to keeping him away so long from you and his friends,
whom he has such desire to see in Holland.
I, therefore, write this to you without so much as telling
him of it. And hope I may even surprise him with the good
service I have been so long endeavouring for him. Or if I
succeed not, I know both he and you will kindly accept of my
endeavours, since I am so truly concerned for your interests,
and cannot but be so in a particular manner for yours, whom
I have taken such care of, as a child or younger brother of my
own, so as to have a kind of natural affection for you, and
accordingly I ever heartily pray God for your well doing.
Nothing could have more rejoiced me than to hear, as I did
this last year, of the character you began to gain for industry
and application to business. I am sorry to hear of your master's
death, and hope that other advantages proposed will more than
repair the disturbance, and help forward in the gaining you such
a character, together with such experience and good conversation,
1 A brother of Thomas Micklethway t for whom Shaf tesbury sought
to obtain a public office.
Letters. 379
as may in a year or two's time fit you for setting out well in the
world.
Time runs away. I hope you will not be impatient, but
remember that the best fruits must have time for growth, and
that you will soon reap the fruit of your labours and patient
industry. I pray God prosper you, and hope you remember my
good advice and promises you made me, who am your hearty
friend, SHAFTESBURY.
[Address] : For Mr. Joseph Micklethwayt, to be left at Mr.
Furly's, merchant, in Rotterdam.
TO JOSEPH MICKLETHWAYT.
ST. GILES'S, February 26th, 1706 (7).
DEAR Jo, — I am resolved you shall hear soon enough from
me this time, lest by delaying as I did lately, for one reason or
another, I come at last to make you think again that I have
forgot you. But as I can assure you I never did, so now more
than ever you may depend on my careful thoughts for you, for
many reasons added to those I had before. In the first place
your kind letter very naturally, and in a way which no art can
imitate, assures me that you have a regard to me and count me
as in some measure a parent to you and good friend. In the
next place, as I am in the deepest manner bound for your good
behaviour, having spent so many of my hours in your instruc
tion, and had you so long a little one under my wing, which has
engaged some of my friends, and now in particular (as you
mention) my worthy friend Mr. Van Tweede himself, to have an
opinion of you, what a trouble do you think it would be to me,
I do not say if you did amiss, for I am in no fear of that, but
if you should not in every respect answer that character and
opinion which I have helped to create of you ? I must on this
occasion, dear Jo, put you in mind of an excellent passage of
Scripture, which is, that of those " to whom much is given, much
will be required." I have never been afraid to tell you to
your face that I thought you had good parts, nor did I ever
think that your being a gentleman by family would make
you less industrious, civil, humble, and obedient, where it
380 Letters.
became you to be obedient; on the contrary, I thought
that a right sense of such advantages would make you exceed
those of meaner extract and education in all kinds of complacency
and ingenuity. I used to comfort you by this prospect, for
whatever other natural defects or disadvantages you had,
representing to you how much the way of trade and in a
foreign country would be the fittest to employ and render you
considerable and useful; for so it had been, although your educa
tion had been such as to have taught you nothing else than mere
trade, and ability in that way only. But it has pleased God
from the very beginning of your application this way, to lay
such friends in your way as were able to forward your under
standing in many things besides. And now at last you are in
the house and under the guardianship of so wise a man, that
I may say to you as great an advantage as you are likely to
have in the true knowledge of trade above most young men.
Yet trade itself will be one of the least things for you to
learn, if you make the advantage which you may of such excellent
converse and example. Wisdom, prudence, and virtue are above
all other things. And what you want in the knowledge of books
can only be made up to you effectually by being so placed
near the converse of persons so universally knowing. The
knowledge of the affairs of mankind and Europe are advantages
which few young men in your calling could hope to learn, and
for this and many other accomplishments, if I were to think
of a school, it would be the house where you are happily
received. For mere schools there are none, nor can be, for
reason and good sense. They are things that must be caught,
not learnt in the common way of instruction. It is a phrase
amongst painters that they must catch a likeness, as when they
have a Prince or some great man's picture to draw they can look
upon only now and then and in passing. So, Jo, I advise you,
you must endeavour to catch. You are naturally quick enough,
and the misfortune is, youth is but too apt to catch, but always
the wrong way. An ugly face, a wry mouth, or an ill posture is
sport for boys, and they can mimic anything of that kind
presently, but a comely behaviour, a handsome, decent deport
ment, goes unminded, and makes no impression. Therefore, dear
Jo, if you would learn those handsome, comely qualifications of
Letters. 381
prudence, gravity, understanding, and good sense, you must take
your eye off from silly things and idle amusements, and see for
the likeness and resemblance of reason and good sense, of which
you will find many good models where God has placed you, and
which if you do not let escape you, of necessity you must
become a man of understanding. For if we give virtue and
wisdom fair play, and do not shut our eyes against it, whilst at
the same time we open them wide upon folly and nonsense, in
this case, I tell you, God having given us withal good natural
parts, we stand yet fairer towards the good than the bad, and
virtue and wisdom may be said to be more catching than vice
and impertinence. So may it prove with you, dear Jo, and so it
surely will if the endeavours are answered or prayers heard of
your good friend, SHAFTESBURY.
TO MICHAEL AINSWORTH.1
CHELSEA, October 3rd, 1707.
GOOD MICHAEL, — I have just received yours as I am now
packing up in haste for St. Giles's, the season being come that I
can no longer bear the town neighbourhood.
I had a letter from you some time before, which I took
kindly and deferred to answer till I had time to write at leisure.
But now I have none at all. You may not only keep Mr. Locke's
Essay, but any other book you want you shall have for your use
out of my study.
I am glad to find your love of reason and free thought.
Your piety and virtue I know you will always keep, especially
since your desires and natural inclinations are toward so serious
a station in life, which others undertake too slightly and without
examining their hearts.
I suppose I shall see you at St. Giles's ere you go where
1 Michael Ainsworth was one of Shaftesbury's proteges. While
in attendance at University College, Oxford, a number of letters were
addressed to him by his patron as "Good" or "Honest" Michael,
which have been published in a book, entitled " Several Letters
written by a Noble Lord to a Young Man at the University, first
printed in 1716." Of his early life see letter dated May 23rd, 1710.
382 Letters.
you design. Be prudent in keeping secret what I recommend
to you for your own sake, and I shall heartily forward your
good undertaking, as I promised, and pray God to give you
success, being your good friend and well wisher,
SHAFTESBURY.
[Address] : To Mr. Michael Ainsworth, at Mr. Jones's,
Corhampton, Hampshire.
TO MAURICE ASHLEY.
ST. GILES'S, October 21st, 1707.
DEAR BROTHER, — I am sorry I should have lost the favour
you intended me of a visit at Chelsea, having so little hope of
seeing you elsewhere. My coming away so suddenly was
extremely fortunate for myself, the eastern winds having
blown ever since. I have been so long a stranger to the affairs
of Carolina,1 having never been informed of them but by the
public prints, that I am unable to give you the advice you
desire, and which I should gladly do if I were capable.
Matters being come to that sad pass you describe, you will
do prudently, no doubt, to make the best you can of so
desperate a game. I have not been able to discover any
writings about Ely lease in all my late search ; nor have I
found so much as the original lease itself. But having got (as
I told you) a new lease by good fortune, just before the last
Bishop's death, I am safe, and consequently you are so, and may
be at ease, since nobody but I myself can bring you in danger.
And being now grown a more careful man by experience after
having been but too careless in matters of interest and fortune,
I can both keep and look after things as I should do, and dare
trust myself with whatever is proper for me to keep.
Methinks 'tis very long since I had the happiness of seeing
you here at St. Giles's. But I forbear to importune you, having
been formerly so unfortunate on that subject; so shall leave it
ever to your inclination and the time of your convenience, being
always your affectionate brother and humble servant.
1This refers to the interests of the first Earl in the early
settlement of the American colony of Carolina.
Letters. 383
TO MAURICE ASHLEY.
ST. GILES'S, November 5th, 1707.
DEAR BROTHER, — I am sorry for poor Carolina ; being
satisfied how matters stand by what you have written.
I hope you are satisfied, too, as to the other affair, and that
you think a danger from me to be no danger. Mortality nor
accidents cannot hurt you in the case. If I do it, it must be
wilfully, and that I hope can never be a fear with you, nor
worth my giving myself any trouble with lawyers, which,
however, I should be glad of, in a certain family case, whenever
you should give the occasion.
But as to these and other matters, both public and private,
in which I have been so unfortunate as to urge you too far,
I will never, if I know myself, give you occasion to reproach me
hereafter. I wish in all respects you may do to your own
liking and satisfaction, and shall be officious no farther than in
what is necessary to prove myself, your affectionate brother
and humble servant.
TO ROBERT MOLESWORTH.1
ST. GILES'S, 13th December, 1707.
SIR, — You will pardon me if I say it was no surprise to me
to hear this post how kindly you had acted for me ; when, after
the common rate of friendships, one in my case might have
expected to have been almost forgotten. But I know too well
the value of yours, and though my being now accustomed to live
so distant from the town and company reconciles me easily to
the parting with more than half the acquaintances I have made
in the world ; yet that which I had the happiness of making so
1 Robert Molesworth (1656—1725), created first Viscount Moles-
worth on 10th July, 1719. His early pamphlet, entitled "An
Account of Denmark as it was in the year 1692" (Lond., 1694), was
warmly approved by both Locke and Shaftesbury for its vigorous
utterances of Liberal principles. He became an intimate friend of
Shaftesbury, who confided to him the history of his first and unsuccess
ful love affair in the letters which were published by Toland, in 1721.
384 Letters.
early with you has been too well grounded and on too good
principles to suffer me to think of ever resigning it.
The affair in which you have so kindly concerned yourself
in relation to my solicitations for a friend of mine, and the hard
usage I have met with in many respects since the beginning of
the Queen's reign, has opened a mystery to me by which I can
explain some part of my ill fortune, at least what has been
within this year or two past. They were indeed extraordinary
officious persons who so charitably made use of my name in
behalf of Parson Stephens.1 But common honesty should have
taught them to make use of nobody's charity against their will.
And this charitable representation of me was doubly false;
because it implied in the first place, that I had forgiven him
myself, before I could be supposed to ask forgiveness for him of
others. But I neither forgave him, nor perhaps ever shall.
The reason is, that this Stephens was one whom I often
saw, and having been friendly to him and helped him in
some troubles that he had brought upon himself many years
ago, I had reason from his own promise and protestations
to expect that he would never have meddled with matters
out of his sphere, and least of all in public affairs have
struck directly at my interest and opinion, for so I esteemed
his usage of the Ministry, in particular as to the character of
my Lord Duke of Marlborough, which he had often heard from
me, and which both at home and abroad, before and after the
King's death, I had in a particular manner espoused with a
warmth which my friends well know, and with a vanity (which
to me was a great one) of acting disinterestedly, and without
any obligation but that to truth and merit, and the interest
of my country. I confess I could not at first believe Stephens
the author of that pamphlet, until I heard of his owning it, and
then could not but think the Ministry highly generous in dis
daining to take his punishment for satisfaction. From that time
to this I cast him off, nor would ever see his face. Though even
at this time I can hardly think him such a villain as to have
dared use my name in his own behalf. Who those were that
used it for him I can't judge, but what they were I well know.
^ee letter of July 17th, 1706.
Letters. 385
But be this as it will, if notwithstanding the forgery and abuse,
my Lord Treasurer1 or Lord Duke could have thoughts of
obliging me in another case, I must own my obligation to be
beyond a common one, and I hope to return it by a more than
common gratitude. And by representing this for me, now the
occasion has offered, you will add to those obligations which
have long made me your faithful friend and humble servant.
Mem. — To Mr. Molesworth on his speaking (unknown to me)
to the Lord Treasurer about Micklethwayt affair, and
about Parson Stephens. The Lord Treasurer took this
letter from Mr. Molesworth to show the Duke of Marl-
borough.
TO MR. DARBY.
ST. GILES'S, February 2nd, 1708.
MR. DARBY, — I shall be glad to receive Mr. Hughes's
acceptable present of his Translation of Mons. Fontenelle,2 and
doubt not but I shall have reason to value it for its own sake
as well as the translator's.
I thank you and the unknown person, your friend, for
the intention of a dedication on the subject of my deceased
friend, Mons. Bayle, whose acquaintance and friendship, as I
was ever free to own whilst he was alive, so I readily would
now he is dead; and would do anything that looked respectful
to his memory. Whatever his opinions might be, either in
politics or philosophy (for no two ever disagreed more in these
than he and I), yet we lived and corresponded as entire friends.
And I must do him the justice to say that whatever he might
be in speculation, he was in practice one of the best of
Christians, and almost the only man I ever knew who, professing
1 Sydney Godolphin (1645—1702), the first Earl of Godolphin,
was Lord of the Treasury during various periods in the reigns of
James II., William III., and Queen Anne.
3 Bernard Le Bovier de Fontenelle's Discourse concerning the
Antients and Moderns. Translated by Mr. Hughes. It is to be
found also in a volume with Fontenelle's " Conversations with a
Lady on the Plurality of Worlds." Translated by Mr. Glanvill.
London, 1719.
CC
386 Letters.
philosophy, lived truly as a philosopher ; with that innocence,
virtue, temperance, humility, and contempt of the world and
interest which might be called exemplary. Nor was there ever
a fairer reasoner, or a civiler, politer, wittier man in conversation.
His learning the world knows enough of by his books. But
this I knew of him by a long and intimate acquaintance, and
living under one roof with him, which made me a nearer witness
as to his integrity and worth, for which he was yet far more
valuable to me than for all his wit and learning. But notwith
standing all I have said, and would gladly say of him in all
places, and before all the world, I must entreat you to let this
matter of dedication pass by me, for there are certain draughts
of flattery which essentially belong to that cup, and are too
strong for my weak stomach. I never yet could bear the
thoughts of it, and being forced by my constitution to live
retired as I do, I cannot bear being so public in another way.
So that I beg you would excuse me yourself, as well as to
the gentleman who designed me the kind favour.
TO LORD SOMERS.
(With the printed Letter concerning Enthusiasm.) l
July I2th, 1708.
MY LORD, — Your enthusiastic friend, you see, had made his
words good as to what he lately wrote your Lordship upon the
discovery of his last letter concerning enthusiasm and prophecy.
However concerned he was at first for being discovered in
such a manner, he still told your lordship he was sure there was
no cowardice in the case; nor would he be ashamed to own
publicly whatever he had written your lordship in private as
your devoted servant, for you have none more so, or that desires
more publicly to appear so, than himself. The only question is
whether anything he is capable of writing can be judged of
1 The " Letter concerning Enthusiasm" was written by Shaftesbury
to Lord Somers under date of September, 1707, but was first printed
anonymously in 1707-8. It was occasioned by the fanaticism of some
of the French Protestants who had taken refuge in England.
Excessive enthusiasm, he here maintains, is best overcome by "raillery"
and "good-humour."
Letters. 387
value enough to make a present of to your lordship. Were he
satisfied of this, he could go further and add both your lordship's
name and his own, which, however, in spite of him will be
guessed at, after what passed, not only in a certain club (as was
intimated to your lordship), but elsewhere in the world, the
letter having been from that first person communicated also to
some of the author's friends who knew him intimately, and could
discover his correcting hand. It was mere fortune it came not
in print before now, since a printer several months ago had it
left in his hands by some of those persons formerly mentioned.
Others have done it the honour to copy pieces of it in their
letters, which your friend has seen, and have given it the
advantage of their own dress, in which it was likely to come
abroad soon into the world amongst the writings of those
gentlemen who frequently supply the press, and borrow freely
of one another or whoever else comes in their way.
However it be, no one besides your lordship can say
positively of the letter whose it is or to whom. You are under no
obligation of owning it, much less of patronising or defending it.
You have neither the piece nor the author to answer for, and
this, my lord, is a sufficient saving for your character. His own
he values not ; for be it treated as it will, it can neither hurt nor
benefit the public, whose service he is so unfit for. It is enough
for him if he can serve your lordship, though merely by the
good example of endeavouring it, and honouring to the utmost
of his power the man whom he thinks deserves the best of
his country and mankind. He would be glad to raise such an
emulation and see it a fashion with authors as well as with men
of note to contend for your esteem, and strive who should
appear to be what he thinks himself in reality, your most
zealous friend, and faithful, humble servant.
TO BENJAMIN FURLY,
CHELSEA, 22nd July, 1708.
MR. FURLY, — ... I was over and above indebted to you for
your succeeding letter which brought such glorious news.1 Nor
1Of the victory of Marlborough over the French on the llth
July, 1708, at Oudenarde.
388 Letters.
do I wonder that the particulars you gave at first were not so
exact; for though there be not in the world one who admires
the Prince Eugene1 more than I, yet I have long observed that
both in England and Holland he has many pretended admirers
who cry him up to the skies, for no love to himself but hatred
to other people. But I will have done with these subjects ;
having long pleaded in vain with certain persons on your side in
the behalf of the sincerity and good designs of our Ministry
here at home, and of some great persons who, though I will not
justify some infirmities of others, and many misbehaviours in
their former lives, yet have given such proofs long since of their
fidelity to the interest of Europe and zeal of the common cause,
that nothing but a spirit of detraction can call it in question.
This was a doctrine I preached from the first coming of our
Queen to the crown. I am sure I had no obligation to her
Ministry. They were far from being personally my friends, or
any way reconciled (as they are now more and more indeed) to
that which I esteem the right party in my country. This I had
the good fortune to convince Myn Heer Wellant of when I first
came into Holland, the first year of the Queen's reign. But
great jealousies have grown up since. Myn Heer Wellant is
now dead. I have none that seek my opinion (as he then did)
and so I am free of the burden of justifying courtiers and great
men, which to such a one as I am, is a hard task at best, since
great men will have great faults, and when their politics are
good their morals will be ill; and their lives give scandal to
such a formal liver as I am, who neither aim at riches nor ever
admire what the world (especially people of my rank) call
pleasure.
I hope we have one truly good and great man2 coming up
in the world, and that is he whom I contributed what lay in my
power to place Mr. Arent3 with this last time. I am sorry to
find affairs have no better a prospect on that side. . . .
1 Prince Eugene of Savoy (1663-1736) was one of the greatest
generals of his time. Although of French extraction he served under
the banners of Austria in the war of the Spanish Succession. His
forces were united with those of Marlborough both at Blenheim and
Oudenarde.
2 General James Stanhope. 3 Arent Furly.
Letters.
TO ROBERT MOLESWORTH.1
CHELSEA, September 30^, 1708.
DEAR SIR, — Two reasons have made me delay answering
yours : I was in hopes of seeing our great lord, and I depended
on Mr. Micklethwayt's presenting you with my services, and
informing you of all matters public and private. The Queen
is but just come to Kensington, and my lord2 to town. He
promised to send me word, and appoint me a time, when he
came. But I should have prevented him, had it been my
weather for town-visits. But having owed the recovery of my
health to the method I have taken of avoiding the town smoke,
I am kept at a distance, and like to be removed even from hence
in a little while, though I have a project of staying longer here
than my usual time, by removing now and then cross the water,
to my friend Sir John Cropley's, in Surrey, where my riding and
airing recruits me. I am highly rejoiced, as you may believe,
that I can find myself able to do a little more public service
than what of late years I have been confined to in my country,
and I own the circumstances of a Court were never so inviting
to me as they have been since a late view I have had of the best
part of our Ministry. It may perhaps have added more of
confidence and forwardness in my way of courtship, to be so
incapacitated as I am from taking anything there for myself.
But I hope I may convince some persons that it is possible
to serve disinterestedly, and that obligations already received
(though on the account of others) are able to bind as strongly as
the ties of self-interest.
I had resolved to stay till I had one conference more with
our lord before I wrote to you, but a letter which I have this
moment received from Mr. Micklethwayt, on his having waited
on you in the country, has made me resolve to write thus hastily
(without missing to-night's post) to acknowledge, in the friend
liest and freest manner, the kind and friendly part you have
taken in my private interests. If I have ever endured anything
for the public, or sacrificed any of my youth, or pleasures, or
1 cf Letters from Shaf tesbury, printed by Toland.
2 The Earl of Godolphin, then Lord Treasurer.
390 Letters.
interests to it, I find it is made up to me in the good opinion of
some few; and perhaps one such friendship as yours may counter
balance all the malice of my worst enemies. It is true what I once
told you I had determined with myself, never to think of the
continuance of a family, or altering the condition of life that
was most agreeable to me, whilst I had (as I thought) a just
excuse,1 but that of late I had yielded to my friends, and
allowed them to dispose of me if they thought that by this
means I could add anything to the power or interest I had to
serve them or my country. I was afraid, however, that I should
be so heavy and unactive in this affair that my friends would
hardly take me to be in earnest. But though it be so lately
that I have taken my resolution, and that you were one of the
first who knew it, I have on a sudden such an affair thrown
across me, that I am confident I have zeal enough raised in me
to hinder you from doubting whether I sincerely intend what
I profess. There is a lady whom chance has thrown into my
neighbourhood, and whom I never saw till the Sunday before
last, who is in every respect that very person I had ever framed
a picture of from my imagination when I wished the best for
my own happiness in such a circumstance. I had heard her
character before, and her education, and every circumstance
besides suited exactly, all but her fortune. Had she but a ten
thousand pounds my modesty would allow me to apply without
reserve, where it was proper. And I would it were in my
power, without injury to the lady, to have her upon those terms,
or lower. I flatter myself too, by all appearance, that the father
has long had, and yet retains, some regard for me, and that the
disappointments he has had in some higher friendships may
make him look as low as on me, and imagine me not wholly
unworthy of his relation. But if by any interest I had or could
possibly make with the father, I should induce him to bestow
his daughter, perhaps with much less fortune (since I would
gladly accept her so) than what in other places he would have
bestowed, I shall draw a double misfortune on the lady, unless
she has goodness enough to think that one who seeks her for
what he counts better than a fortune may possibly by his worth
1 In the hope that his brother would marry.
Letters. 391
or virtue make her sufficient amends. And were I but
encouraged to hope or fancy this, I would begin my offers
to-morrow, and should have greater hopes that my disinterested
ness would be of some service to me in this place as matters
stand.
You see my scruple, and being used to me, and knowing my
odd temper '(for I well know you believe it no affectation), you
may be able to relieve me, and have the means in your hands ;
for a few words with one who has the honour to be your
relation would resolve me in this affair. I cannot stir in it till
then, and should be more afraid of my good fortune than my
bad, if it should happen to me to prevail with a father, for
whom the lady has so true a duty that, even against her
inclination, she would comply with anything required. I am
afraid it will be impossible for you to read or make sense of
what I write thus hastily, but I fancy with myself I make you
the greater confidence, in trusting to my humour and first
thought, without ^staying till I have so much as formed a
reflection. I am sure there is hardly any one besides you I
should lay myself thus open to, but I am secure in your
friendship, which I rely on (for advice) in this affair. I beg to
hear from you in answer by the first post, being with great
sincerity, your faithful friend and humble servant.
TO ROBERT MOLESWORTH.1
BEACHWORTH, IN SURREY, October 23rd, 1708.
DEAR SIR, — You guessed right as to the winds, which are
still easterly, and keep me here in winter-quarters, from all
public and private affairs. I have neither seen Lord Treasurer,
nor been at Chelsea to prosecute my own affair, though as for
this latter, as great as my zeal is, I am forced to a stand.
I was beforehand told, that as to the Lord, he was in some
measure engaged ; and the return I had from him, on my
application, seemed to imply as much. On the other side, I have
had reason to hope that the lady who had before bemoaned
herself for being destined to greatness without virtue had yet
1 cf Toland's letters from Shaftesbury.
392 Letters.
her choice to make, and after her escapes sought for nothing
so much as sobriety and a strict virtuous character. How much
more still this adds to my zeal you may believe, and by all
hands I have received the highest character of your relation,
who seems to have inspired her with these and other good
sentiments, so rare in her sex and degreee. My misfortune is,
I have no friend in the world by whom I can in the least engage,
or have access to your relation, but only by yourself, and I have
no hopes of seeing you soon, or of your having any opportunity
to speak of me to her. If a letter could be proper, I should
fancy it more so at this time than any other, provided you would
found it on the common report which is abroad of my being in
treaty for that lady. This might give you an occasion of
speaking of me as to that part, which few besides can know
so well, I mean my heart, which, if she be such as really all
people allow, will not displease her to hear so well of, as, perhaps
in friendship and from old acquaintance, you may represent.
If the person talked of be really my rival,1 and in favour with
the father, I must own my case is next to desperate, not only
because I truly think him, as the world goes, likely enough
to make a good (at least a civil) husband, but because as my aim
is not fortune, as is his, he being an old friend too, I should
unwillingly stand between him and an estate, which his liberality
has hitherto hindered him from gaining, as great as his advan
tages have been hitherto in the Government. By what I have
said, I believe you may guess who my supposed rival is, or if
you want a farther hint, 'tis one of the chief of the Junto,
an old friend of yours and mine, whom we long sat with in the
House of Commons (not often voted with), but who was after
wards taken up to a higher House, and is as much noted for
wit, and gallantry, and magnificence, as for his eloquence and
courtier's character. But whether this be so suited to this meek
good lady's happiness, I know not. Fear of partiality and
self-love makes me not dare determine, but rather mistrust
myself, and turn the balance against me. Pray keep this secret,
for I got it by chance, and if there be anything in it 'tis a great
secret between the two lords themselves. But sometimes I fancy
1 Charles Montague, Earl of Halifax.
Letters. 393
it is a nail which will hardly go, though I am pretty certain
it has been aimed at by this old acquaintance of ours ever since
a disappointment happened from a great lord beyond sea, who
was to have had the lady.
Nothing but the sincere friendship you show for me could
make me to continue thus to impart my privatest affairs, and in
reality, though they seem wholly private and selfish, I will not
be ashamed to own the honesty of my heart to you ; in professing
that the public has much the greatest part in all this bustle I am
engaging in. You have lately made me believe, and even proved,
too, by experience, that I had some interest in the world, and
there, where I least dreamt of it, with great men in power, I had
always something of an interest in my country, and with the plain
honest people ; and sometimes I have experienced, both here at
home and abroad, where I have long lived and made acquaintance
(in Holland especially), that with a plain character of honesty
and disinterestedness I have on some occasions, and in dangerous
urgent times of the public, been able to do some good. If the
increase of my fortune be the least motive in this affair before
me (as sincerely I do not find), I will venture to say it can only
be in respect of the increase of my interest, which I may have
in my country, in order to serve it.
One who has little notion of magnificence, and less of
pleasure and luxury, has not that need of riches which others
have, and one who prefers tranquillity and a little study and a
few friends to all other advantages of life, and all the flatteries
of ambition and fame, is not like to be naturally so very fond of
engaging in the circumstances of marriage. I do not go
swimmingly to it, I assure you, nor is the great fortune a great
bait. Sorry I am that nobody with a less fortune or more
daughters has had the wit to order such an education. A very
moderate fortune had served my turn, or perhaps quality alone,
to have a little justified me and kept me in countenance, had I
chose so humbly ; but now that which is rich ore, and would
have been the most estimable had it been bestowed on me, will
be mere dross, and flung away on others, who will pity and
despise those very advantages which I prize so much. But this
is one of the common-places of exclamation against the
distribution of things in this world, and upon my word, whoever
394 Letters.
brought up the proverb, 'tis no advantageous one for a
providence to say Matches are made in Heaven. I believe
rather in favour of providence, that there is nothing which is so
merely fortune, and more committed to the power of blind
chance. So I must be contented, and repine the less at my lot if
I am disappointed in such an affair. If I satisfy my friends
that I am not wanting to myself, it is sufficient. I am sure you
know it, by the sound experience of all this trouble I have given
and am still like to give you. Though I confess myself, yet
even in this too I do but answer friendship, as being so sincerely
and affectionately your most faithful friend and humble servant.
TO LORD SOMERS.
(With the "Moralists.")
December IQth, 1708.
MY LORD, — Once again your enthusiastic friend salutes you
in his old way and with an old present. Your lordship has here
a piece, now published to the world, which formerly was private
to yourself. Had it been worthy your lordship's name, how
glad would your friend have been of presenting it to you
publicly ! But what shall one do ? A piece that has mischief
in it must not be publicly addressed to your lordship; and a
piece that treats of religion, and has no mischief, will infallibly
be found dull. Such a one is this I enclose to your lordship,
and for which I might otherwise perhaps claim your countenance
and favour ; for hardly will our clergyman find anything here
to take offence at. The fear is that the man of wit will rather
think the author retained on the priest's side, and will despise
him as much for an enthusiast in this piece as the priests have
reviled him for an atheist in another.
The title,1 your lordship sees, is changed, and so is much
besides in the book. If it were worth your reading then, I hope
it is more worth it now. But that it ever did or can deserve
that honour I dare not say. I beg only of your lordship that
you would destroy that other imperfect copy, and if you think
1 The " Moralists " was originally entitled " The Sociable
Enthusiast." See p.
Letters. 395
this worthy of a place in your library, I shall rejoice to have
it serve there but as a remembrance of my being in every
capacity, my lord, your lordship's most affectionate and devoted,
humble servant.
p.S. — I have sent the book unbound to your lordship in
haste, the title page unfinished, lest it should be abroad anywhere
before you had it.
TO LORD HALIFAX.1
16^ December, 1708.
MY LORD, — It is three or four years since I promised the
bearer (Mons. Desmaizeaux, a French Protestant) to introduce
him to your lordship. Being a man of letters, his greatest hope
was from your favour, and knowing the honour and esteem
I have for your lordship, he persuades himself that a character
from me may do him service.
He was earnestly recommended to me many years since by
an excellent judge, Mons. Bayle, who esteemed him for his
ingenuity and polite learning. If a man of that character, who
is versed in the ancient and modern languages, and a master in
his own, with a natural good genius, and a sufficient practice
and acquaintance with the affairs and men of letters abroad, may
be thought of any service, I may perhaps be fortunate in
recommending him; if otherwise, I hope your lordship will
pardon this trouble I give you in behalf of one of the starving
race of scholars. There are so few left, and these so low-
spirited, and out of hope, that they can hardly prove trouble
some or importunate. Perhaps there might have been none of
this sort left among us, had not your lordship, even in your
1 Charles Montague, Earl of Halifax (1661 — 1715), was a promi
nent Whig and Parliamentary orator. He became Chancellor of the
Exchequer on 30th April, 1694, having just previously been the chief
agent in the formation of the Bank of England. With Lord Somers
and others he was impeached (14th April, 1701) by the Tories on the
charge of sharing in the Treaty of Partition. On the 10th April,
1706, he was appointed one of the Commissioners to regulate the
union with Scotland. He was a life-long friend of Sir Isaac Newton,
and a constant patron of learning.
396 Letters.
private character, been a patron to them, when they had none
left in the public. How they may multiply now your lordship
and your friends are coming into Court, I know not ; but other
wise a peace (should we have ever so good a one) would hardly
mend their circumstances ; and my advice to them should be to
pray for war, and turn engineers against the next siege. —
I am, my lord, your lordship's most faithful and obedient
humble servant.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
ST. GILES'S, February 19th, 1708 (9).
MR. COSTE, — . . . One word, however, as to the Muses, with
many thanks to you for your entertaining French treatise. I
assure it was extremely pleasant, and I found it the only just
and sensible work of this kind.
The author seems to have nobler views than he dare show ;
though I confess towards the latter end he made me a little
blush for him (for I was mightily in his interest) when he
seemed to give in to the machine and decorations of the theatre.
For this is vulgar, miserable, barbarous, and is directly that
which corrupted the Roman stage, or rather, made it impossible
for them to succeed in their tragedy or opera.
Migravit ab aure voluptas
Omnis ad incertos oculos et gaudia vana.1
Read but the passage of Horace to Augustus in his
exquisite satire, for it was more than a critique upon the Roman
stage — and those sort of spectacles in which (as we know by
Suetonius) the monarch, as polite as he pretended to be, had a
popular taste. So that Horace had a delicate string to touch in this
affair, as delicate almost as if he had been to write to him upon
his own Ajax, which he had wittily said he Jiad fallen upon his
sword, and was self -murdered. But perhaps the subtle wit of
his friend Horace helped to guide his hand. And here in this
epistle to him, though he attacks him not in person, it is more
than likely he attacks his relish. He falls upon the whole race
1 All pleasure has passed away from the ear to the restless eyes
and empty joys. — Hor., Ep., Bk. II., i., 187-8.
Letters. 397
of Latin poets, both modern and ancient (his two friends, Virgil
and Varius, for decency-sake excepted), and shows what their
genius was from the beginning, and how afterwards, when it
should have been refined, it grew rather worse by running into
the marvellous, the outrageous, the extreme of things. Yet he
owns the Romans had a genius for tragedy, could they have
cultivated it, and kept their ear. But they ran all into eye.
'Twas no wonder indeed that the Roman people should soon
come to the taste of tragedy ; for they were free and popular,
and had the true foundation of a taste in this kind, which is a
relish of the afflictions and misfortunes of those who make the
world unfortunate and afflict the people. For tragedy opens the
inward scene of the palace, and shows us the misfortunes and
miseries of the great ; by which the people are not only revenged
but comforted and encouraged to endure their equal plain rank
when they see the tyranny attended with such disasters, and
those seeming happy lords of mankind more galled and troubled
by the inward disturbances, which belong naturally to their
state of fortune and mind, than the very lowest degree of people
that live orderly, and under the restraint and security of equal
laws.
And when you have considered of this, you will perhaps
find out another reason than that which Horace assigns to his
monarch - friend. For indeed the liberty of Rome miscarried
quickly; they were hardly got out of barbarism but they fell
instantly into slavery.
Post Punica bella, quietus quaerere coepit
Quid Sophocles, &c.
Et placuit sibi natura sublimis et acer ;
Nam spirat tragicum satis et feliciter audet.1
But here Horace is forced to be a little lame. He shuffles
off from his subject and gets to comedy, though it is plain he
had his thought elsewhere ; and the machines he afterwards
1 For the Roman " after the Punic wars began to inquire what
benefits might accrue from reading Sophocles, &c., and gave satis
faction to himself by nature high and daring ; for he possesses a
sufficient conception of tragedy, and ventures upon it felicitously." —
Hor., Ep., Bk. II., i., 162-6.
398 Letters.
speaks of as the corruption of the stage were far more
applicable here than there.
Now this is what our French author at last gives into, and
for which I was ashamed for him in his last page but one. A
little of this false taste again he discovers (page 25) where,
speaking of the Italian recitative, he complains of its simplicity,
qu 'il est trop simple, trop uni. Now when I come to speak
with you at leisure (since you desire my thoughts on this
subject), I will undertake to show you that the Italians are so
much in the right in this, that if other causes did but concur,
they would for this very reason be in a fair way of restoring the
ancient tragedy (the true opera) with its chorus, and all the
charms depending on that ancient plan and method. Meanwhile
I dare prophesy, that as countries grow more polite, and take
after this Italian manner of rendering their recitative more
plain and simple, the opera will every day gain more upon the
other theatre, and our best tragedy at last melt into opera,
which union will be a kind of reviving of the ancient tragedy in
all its noble orders of music and continued harmony. But the
mock-choruses of the French are the most ridiculous things in
the world, and a gross sort of music fit only for the parterre, and
in my time constantly sung by the parterre in company with the
actors, so that I used to think myself rather at church than at an
opera, where all throats at once were let loose to join in this
Psalm-music of a confused multitude. And for the recitatif
of the French, which, instead of distinguishing from the
passionate and moving places (reserved for regular music, and
the only subject proper for it), they endeavour equally to adorn,
it is a perpetual bar against the success of their opera, as to the
tragic part and poem. For let a poet do what he will, the more
noble, quick, and strong he makes his action, the parts of that
kind, if sung in regular song, will render all ridiculous. Whereas,
the more sedately passionate parts or places (if I may so call them)
of reflection, such as soliloquies and the real parts of the chorus
(who should be one and is one in the action, though representing
'many) — these, if reserved for the great art of the musician and
attended by the symphonies, would have their due effect upon
the audience, and the tragedy would go on peaceably on a
plainer foot, just next to common speech, and even below the
Letters. 399
present recitative of the Italians, which therefore, instead of
being too simple (as the author censures it), is in reality not
reduced enough to its true ancient simplicity.
But I see, unawares, I have written a whole sheet of hard
criticism upon the ingenious author you have sent me. To make
him amends I am resolved to copy a whole paragraph which I
read with admiration, and can't help applying to higher subjects
than those he treats of.
Page 14. — His words are : " Quelquefois vous entendez
une tenue centre laquelle les premiers tons de la basse continue
font une disonnance qui irrite 1'oreille ; mais la basse continuant
de jouer, revient a cette tenue par de si beaux accords, qu'on
voit bien que le musicien n'a fait ces premiers dissonances, que
pour faire sentir, avec plus de plaisir, ces belles cordes ou il
ramene aussitdt l'harmonie."
You know me for a great enthusiast, at least as the world
goes. For to talk of the world as harmony, or of a master of
the music, is on every side a mystery. The men of wit believe
no such hand at all, and the bigots know not what to do with
the dissonances: c'est le diable 7ro(9ei/ TO KCIKOV. Graecum est
(as the monk said) et non potest intelligi.
You may perhaps understand me, however. If not, I have
no more time this bout.
TO LORD TOWNSEND.i
CHELSEA, May 28th, 1709.
MY LORD, — Mr. Furly, of Rotterdam, having desired the
honour of being introduced to your lordship and thinking my
hand a proper one, I could not refuse to employ the credit he
thought I had with your lordship in the service of so old a
friend and true an Englishman. His thorough experience in the
affairs of Holland, and his zeal for the Protestant religion —
the common cause — and the interest of the two nations, are
qualities which will make him valued by your lordship,
1 Charles Townsend (1674 — 1738) second Viscount Townsend,
was a prominent Whig Statesman. In May, 1709, he was sent to the
Hague as Plenipotentiary to treat for peace with France.
400 Letters.
and may perhaps render him useful to you in the present
conjuncture of affairs.
Besides the share I have in the public satisfaction, I have
a particular one of my own, in seeing your lordship (whom I
so easily honoured) entrusted, as you are, in the affairs of your
country and of Europe.
I doubt not but it will be attended with the highest
success ; and that, besides the concern I have for my country
and the common interest of mankind, your lordship will believe
my good wishes to be increased by being, with so much respect
as I am, your lordship's most humble and most obedient servant.
TO LORD SOMERS.
(To Lord S s, with the Essay on the Freedom of
Wit and Humour.)1
B , June 2nd, 1709.
To MY LORD. — Nothing but the height of respect could
have kept your friend from addressing the enclosed to you.
Had he dared to converse with you in idea, as he did in a
former letter, he should have pleased himself and perhaps the
public far better in this performance. But his care to remove
your lordship from the suspicions of the clergy, who have of late
been so horribly alarmed, has made him unwilling to give you
publicly the air of a correspondence with a supposed enemy of
the Church, for such the author of this essay will infallibly be
esteemed, though he names neither Church nor Priest, nor says
anything concerning any mystery of religions, but has kept such
measures of decency as may secure him, he hopes, from giving
the least offence to any except the merest bigots. All his aim is,
in plain sense, to recommend plain honesty, which in the bustle
made about religion is fairly dropped. The defenders of
religion, as well as its opposers, are contented to make nothing
or a mere name of virtue.
The priest (as a trader) makes a bargain of it, as lottery-
1 Shaftesbury's " Sensus Communis, an Essay on the Freedom of
Wit and Humour," appeared anonymously in May, 1709.
Letters. 401
adventure with a sure return of a million per cent, and more, if
you have the luck to hear good council and choose the right fund.
The atheist (a cautious dealer) supposes it a game of interest,
a play for fame or fortune. Neither of the two comprehend
that honest motto : prodesse quam conspici.
Mr. Hobbes would say of your lordship that you understood
how to gain fame by seeming to avoid it. What the priest
would say in the case is hard to imagine. He might fulsomely,
perhaps, extol your secret meaning, and say you despised other
advantages, and had an eye only to the recompense of reward.
But even this would not serve turn, as the case of our salvation
is stated to us. For as to the interest of your soul, were this,
my lord, the chief concern with you, a private closet would
be more suitable than the cabinet of the prince; a college or
cloister more beneficial than a Court or Parliament; and texts
of Scripture with the holy fathers a properer speculation than
the intrigues of State, and the mystery of this kingdom of
darkness. For the children of light have a magnanimous
contempt of this earthly Jerusalem, and pray daily for its
destruction, and for the coming of that kingdom which shall
put an end to all fleshly power and worldly glories. But for
us worldlings, who are given to think so gloriously of our
country and the prosperity of our nation, and brethren after the
flesh, it is in reality, my lord, a great happiness for us, and
very much our interest, that your soul should be in no better
a way than it is. We cannot, however, but be sorry that it
should fare the worse hereafter in another world, for having
taken so much care of us and our affairs in this. And we
cannot but with regret consider the disparity of your lordship's
ministry with that of the Holy Church, where the saving of a
soul or two will, it is thought, be of more advantage and higher
honour to a country curate, than the saving of nations will be to
so wise and worthy a statesman as yourself. What souls your
lordship may have helped to save for eternity, God knows. It is
certain many sinners have been sent without confession or
absolution into another world during this bloody war, which, it
is confessed, may be too justly laid at your door. And if we
allow salvation in the Romish church, it is in vain to plead for
your lordship that by this war alone we have been saved from
DD
402 Letters.
persecution and dragooning. Besides, who knows whether in
such a militant state our church might not have prospered better
and been in less danger than in these times of forbearance and
moderation. For spiritual interests come not under the same
rule with secular affairs ; and a church, though seemingly
prosperous and flourishing, may carry mortal symptoms which
only its doctors can discover. In the same manner may a
church in the eye of the world seem ready to sink when the
upholders of it know that its ail is little or nothing, and that its
danger can be only from the rash attempt of interposing human
means for its deliverance. All that can be said for your
lordship and those who have zealously supported the Revolution
is, that you meant well to our temporal interest, and that
accordingly things indeed have answered well in the end. And
now especially we have more assurance, since your lordship is
like to have the finishing of what you began, and are now
taking care that after a successful war we should not be
betrayed by a bad peace.
If your lordship, however, finds but small satisfaction in all
this good you have done, and are still doing, if you are unable
to taste the pleasure of doing good for good's sake, you are
certainly very much to be pitied. For rewards in this world
are uncertain, and in the next it is evident that no church, or
churchmen, of whatever kind, will allow you to be one jot more
a saint for all the good you have done or may do in this kind.
In the heathen hell the hottest place, it is true, was for
1 betrayers of their country, as in their elizium the principal
seats were for 2 patriots. So that supposing your friend to be
such an errant heathen as the priests would make him, your
lordship will nevertheless be his saint. For with him good
ministers are as guardian angels, and should, in his opinion, be
honoured and revered as such. Accordingly your lordship, who
is conscious of what part you bear, may judge the affection
of your friend, with what sincerity and constancy he is, my
lord, your lordship's, &c.
1 Vendidit hie auro patriam dominumque potentem
Imposuit. — Virg., Aen. VI., 621.
2 — His dantem jura Catonem. — Virg.t Aen. VIIL, 670.
Letters. 403
TO MICHAEL AINSWORTH.
June 3rd, 1709.1
HONEST MICHAEL, — I received yours since your recovery,
which I am glad to hear of. The new book you have dis
covered, and the account of it, gave me great satisfaction. Your
conjectures of it perhaps are not amiss. Dr. Tindal's principles,
whatever they may be as to church government, are, in respect
of philosophy and theology, far wide from the authors of the
rhapsody.
In general truly it has happened, that all those they call
free writers now-a-days have espoused those principles which
Mr. Hobbes set a-foot in this last age. Mr. Locke, as much as I
honour him on account of other writings (viz., on government,
policy, trade, coin, education, toleration, &c.), and as well as I
knew him, and can answer for his sincerity as a most zealous
Christian and believer, did, however, go in the self -same tract,
and is followed by the Tindals, and all the other ingenious free
authors of our time.
It was Mr. Locke that struck the home blow: for Mr.
Hobbes's character and base slavish principles in government
took off the poison of his philosophy. 'Twas Mr. Locke that
struck at all fundamentals, threw all order and virtue out of the
world, and made the very ideas of these (which are the same as
those of God) unnatural, and without foundation in our minds.
Innate is a word he poorly plays upon ; the right word, though
less used, is connatural. For what has birth or progress of the
foetus out of the womb to do in this case ? The question is not
about the time the ideas entered, or the moment that one body
came out of the other, but whether the constitution of man be
such that, being adult and grown up, at such or such a time,
sooner or later (no matter when), the idea and sense of order,
administration, and a God, will not infallibly, inevitably,
necessarily spring up in him.
Then comes the credulous Mr. Locke, with his Indian,
barbarian stories of wild nations, that have no such idea (as
1 cf Letters to a young man in the University, Lond., 1716, pp.
38—44.
404 Letters.
travellers, learned authors ! and men of truth ! and great
philosophers ! have informed him), not considering that is but
a negative upon a hearsay, and so circumstantiated that the
faith of the Indian danger may be as well questioned as the
veracity or judgment of the relater ; who cannot be supposed to
know sufficiently the mysteries and secrets of those barbarians :
whose language they but imperfectly know ; to whom we good
Christians have by our little mercy given sufficient reason to
conceal many secrets from us, as we know particularly in respect
of simples and vegetables, of which, though, we got the
Peruvian bark, and some other noble remedies, yet it is certain,
that through the cruelty of the Spaniards, as they have owned
themselves, many secrets in medicinal affairs have been
suppressed.
But Mr. Locke, who had more faith, and was more learned
in modern wonder- writers than in ancient philosophy, gave up
an argument for the Deity, w^hich Cicero (though a professed
sceptic) would not explode, and which even the chief of the
atheistic philosophers anciently acknowledged, and solved only
by their " primus in orbe deus feet timor."
Thus virtue, according to Mr. Locke, has no other measure,
law, or rule, than fashion and custom ; morality, justice, equity,
depend only on law and will, and God indeed is a perfect free
agent in his sense ; that is, free to anything, that is however ill :
for if He wills it, it will be made good ; virtue may be vice, and
vice virtue in its turn, if he pleases. And thus neither right nor
wrong, virtue nor vice, are anything in themselves ; nor is there
any trace or idea of them naturally imprinted on human minds.
Experience and our catechism teach us all ! I suppose 'tis
something of like kind which teaches birds their nests, and
how to fly the minute they have full feathers. Your Theocles,
whom you commend so much, laughs at this, and, as modestly as
he can, asks a Lockist whether the idea of woman (and what
is sought after in woman) be not taught also by some catechism,
and dictated to the man. Perhaps if we had no schools of
Venus, nor such horrid lewd books, or lewd companions, we
might have no understanding of this, till we were taught by
our parents; and if the tradition should happen to be lost,
the race of mankind might perish in a sober nation. — This is
Letters. 405
very poor philosophy. But the gibberish of the schools for
these several centuries has, in these latter days of liberty, made
any contrary philosophy of good relish, and highly savoury
with all men of wit, such as have been emancipated from
that egregious form of intellectual bondage. But I see, good
Michael, you are on a better scent.
I can say no more at present, only I would not have you
inquire further, as yet, after that book, entitled an Inquiry.1
Because it was an imperfect thing, brought into the world
many years since, contrary to the author's design, in his absence
beyond sea, and in a disguised, disordered style. It may one
day, perhaps, be set righter, since other things have made it
to be inquired after. Have patience in the meanwhile. Adieu !
God be with you.
[Address]: For Michael Ainsworth, University College, Oxford.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
July 9th, 1709.
WHEELOCK, — After having waited seven years in hopes of
my brother's marrying, and a year or two more in search of such
a wife as was suitable to me in my present circumstances of
health and way of living, I have now news to tell you, which, I
conclude, will be joyful to you, though not surprising. It is
that I am now engaged in earnest, and in a week or fortnight
you shall be with me, where you shall see the family and the
woman herself.
She is well-born on both sides — father's and mother's — and
in both senses of a good family, and of worthy, virtuous, and
good parents, right to the public, related to me, and long
acquainted. But, as particular friends as they are, I have not
seen any of them this eight or nine years, since my health
changed and I retired from town and business. I have
determined on the youngest of the daughters. The eldest was a
grown woman when I used to be much with the family. She
1 Shaftesbury's Inquiry concerning Virtue or Merit was printed
first in the year 1699, by Toland, when its author was in Holland.
His corrected edition appeared in 1711 in the Characteristics.
406 Letters.
has been married since, and proves an excellent wife. The
younger girls were then little ones and in a nursery, so I
remember them not. Their tempers (by what I can learn) are
all of them much alike, and suitable to the education and good
example they have had.
I know more of them, as to their character, than I ever can
expect to know of any women while I live. They are a healthy,
sound breed, and the youngest, they tell me, is the strongest
constitution of all, well proportioned, and of a good make.
No beauty. More I know not as to her person, for I shall not
see her myself till I have determined all else. And for her
fortune, I inquire not of it, for that is not my aim or thought, as
you well know. By the family estate (which is but a handsome
country gentleman's) the daughters' portions, one may believe,
cannot be very considerable, especially where there are younger
brothers, and sisters besides.
If my health holds tolerable, as it has done this last month,
I hope in one more to conclude the affair. — I am in haste this
time. Let me hear of what I last wrote to you. God be with
you.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
WINDSOR, August 8th, Monday night.
WHEELOCK, — I received yours by Tom, but could not answer
you the next morning because I took a sudden resolution and
came away early that morning hither, so bid him tell you where
I was gone, and let Mrs. Skinner know the same, and that
I hoped to meet you and her, or one of you at least, at Rygate,
on Wednesday or Thursday, depending on your despatch in those
affairs which are now so necessary and near at hand. For a
room I must have, nor will wait now above ten days after my
coming from hence. This will be the pretext, for I shall
immediately send to meet Mr. Mead (in Mr. Eyre's absence),
at Sutton, to draw a paper of a word or two by way of articles
on that single point I told you, and there will be an end of the
affair, for settlements there shall be none. I wonder to hear you
speak in yours of a fortune, when you know it is what I had
laid aside the thought of, even in a case before this, and that in
Letters. 407
this case I have plainly told you there was none, or the same
as none, nor to be regarded or thought of by me. My family
and its preservation, my own preservation and health and ease
and content, is enough surely for any friend of mine or my
family's to rejoice at after such a sad prospect, and the little
hopes was left from my bad state of health and from the moral
usage of relations, and those who ought to have been a comfort
to me, instead of a load and torment in return of all I had
bestowed and done. And in reality, should I not find you (as I do
the rest of my friends and well-wishers) heartily delighted and
rejoiced with the prospect I have given, it will be very
surprising to me. I shall not bid you be merry, I can assure
you, if you have not the inclination. But I must needs tell you
what I have said before, that I shall distinguish affections
towards me at this by the tokens of this kind (whether of joy or
heaviness), better than by anything else that has happened, or
can ever happen in my life.
Those who have been ungrateful, unworthy, and treacherous
friends will be thunderstruck with this account when they hear
what they so little expected, believing all my talks of marriage
to be only threats or boasts, and that if anything tempted
me, it would not be so much my family's preservation
and the concern of children, as riches, interest, or at least
wit, beauty, or some of those tempting objects which they
thought I was by my retirement safe from. So they
looked on me as a safe - deceasing bachelor that would
leave no issue behind me, nor mind anything but my
crabbed books, writings, and philosophy. But they will be
surprised by this day or to-morrow seven night, when I shall
send them an account of my being the third or ninth after to be
married to a very young lady, not for love's sake (since I never
saw her till the match was resolved on), nor for riches, but for
my family's sake only, and my own ease in a private and
country life. But I can now tell you (which I could not before)
that I have seen the young lady, and I protest that I think she
is injured in having been represented to me as no beauty, for so
I wrote you word before I had seen her. Whether I am partial
I cannot say positively, for when one comes as I did to the sight
of one whom one had had chosen by character, and had
408 Letters.
determined to be one's wife, one may be allowed to be a little
biassed in judgment as to the person and appearance of the lady
one may be supposed to see with other eyes than ordinary, and
it is fit it should be so. Therefore, with these oilier eyes of
mine let me tell you I think I was wrong when I said from
common report that she was no beauty. For I think her a very
great beauty.
TO LADY RUSSELL.
August 24£/t, 1709.
MADAM, — After the many proofs of that friendship with
which your ladyship has long honoured me, it was no surprising
one that you had the goodness some time since to suffer me to
speak to you with so much freedom of my private affairs, and of
the thoughts I had of marrying to preserve my family. It was
my misfortune (your ladyship knows) to be detained this last
year or two in the prosecution of an affair in which I have had
no success ; though I would gladly have taken the lady without
anything, and upon whatever terms her father would have
thought fit. When I had the honour to mention these
particulars to your ladyship, I assured you at the same time that
since I despaired of success in this place I would pursue rny
intentions for my family's sake without further delay, being
resolved in my circumstances of health (which kept me from
living in or near the town) to have no other regard in the
choice I made, than merely that of a good family, a good
character, and such an education as might best suit a lady's
temper to my circumstance and way of life. And I pre
sumed withal to assure your ladyship that I should take
it for the highest honour to be guided in this by your
ladyship's recommendation if any character of that kind should
offer to your thoughts. It has been my fortune in the
meanwhile to renew an old acquaintance with a sober, good
family I formerly knew, and was intimate with. They are
of a good extract and good principles, and have educated their
children accordingly, with the happiest success. A daughter
1 Mary, daughter of Wm. Russell, the first Duke of Bedford, who
married in 1691 Edward Russell, Earl of Orford.
Letters. 409
of these I have found of a temper, person, and health as I could
wish ; so that, having all the assurance I could possibly have
of her character, from the worth and virtue of her parents (my
old friends) as well as from her own carriage and behaviour in
every respect, I have determined to make my choice here, where
I have nothing deficient but fortune only, and I have taken this
freedom to impart my greatest affair to your ladyship, whose
friendship I ever esteemed as the highest honour. . . . The
lady is youngest daughter to late Mr. Ewer, of Hertfordshire, her
mother a Mountague, granddaughter to the old Lord Manchester.
I should be ashamed to trouble your ladyship with further
particulars, having already made my letter such a long one.
When your ladyship writes at any time to Belvoir, I should
think it an honour to have my lord Duke of Rutland hear
of my concern at your hand. — I am, with the utmost respect,
madam, your ladyship's, &c.
TO MAURICE ASHLEY.
BEACHWORTH, August 24>th, 1709.
DEAR BROTHER, — What I have long hoped in vain to see
you do, I have myself at last resolved on, and for my family's
sake have thought of a wife, the likeliest to bring me children.
Herself well born, and of good blood on each side, of a fit age,
make, and constitution ; modestly bred, in a sober and virtuous
family. She is youngest daughter to late Mr. Ewer, of
Hertfordshire. Her mother a Mountague. The family long
known to me, though I have not seen them for some years past
till now lately. This I thought fit to acquaint you with before I
concluded the affair, and am, dear brother, your affectionate
brother and humble servant.
TO JAMES EYRE.
BEACHWORTH, IN SURREY, August 26th, 1709.
To MR. SOLICITOR EYRE.
SIR, — Amongst the many inconveniences I suffer by having
such a health as will not allow me to live in or near the town,
I have never found any greater, as to my own concerns in
particular, than the being deprived of your company, and the
410 Letters.
constant recourse I should have to you for assistance and advice
as a friend, as well as counsel in all the affairs of my family.
You have of late shown how truly you are that family
friend, and have by the kindest proofs in the world confirmed
that personal as well as traditional friendship there is, and ought
to be, between us, in assisting me by your interest and friends
in my applications, where I began them, when I first turned my
thoughts to marriage. It was, I must own, at a late hour, but
you better than any one know the reasons, and can answer for
me that I did not neglect my family, nor forgot the thoughts of
continuing it, when I took such pains for many years to see my
brother settled, and had immediately on my father's death, by
your assistance, enabled him to marry and come into the world
with all the advantages I could bestow on him had he been even
my elder son, as I had indeed in a manner made him to me. But
many years are since past, and he has given me still less hopes
of his marrying to honour and support his family. When
at last I took the resolution myself (unwillingly I must needs
own), you were the first friend that knew it, and the first who
assisted me in an affair which, could it have been successful,
might in some measure have made up those losses to my
family which an officious care of it, and an over-tenderness
for others I depended on, had led me into. But, as was
natural to one so little mindful of interest as I am, I had
no sooner engaged in courtship to the excellent lady, (my
Chelsea neighbour) but, rather than lose one whom I had so
high an opinion of, I renounced all regards to fortune, and
offered my lord her father to take her with nothing, and acquit
him of all expectations I might have from him in future, offering
him withal to settle all the estate I had, with whatever jointure
he would command, for his daughter. This resolution made me
continue my pursuit another year, and after having attempted
last summer in vain, I came up early this spring from St. Giles's
to renew my application, which still proved as unsuccessful. So
having resolved to lose no more years, nor attempt any more
what was hazardous or doubtful as things stood with me in my
state of health ; and my great concern being the mere preserva
tion of my family, I firmly determined to choose the first young
lady I could meet with, out of a good family, that should be of
Letters, 411
a person, health, education, and temper suitable to my design,
and to my manner and way of living. Such a one I have had
the good fortune to find, so as to have nothing in the world that
is not suitable to my own or friends' desire; excepting the
matter of fortune, which is but very small, and indeed not to be
named : three or four thousand pound, and no more. For
settlements, therefore, you may believe I shall make none ; but
reserve the entire power over my estate to make the best
advantage during my own life, or in the minority of a son, which
may be the best reparation and equivalent for a portion
neglected. I have only engaged to make a jointure of six
hundred a year, rent-charge to the young lady, and to be
released of thirds and dowry, &c., on this account. And thus
far I have ventured in your absence; reserving till I see you,
and consult at leisure with you, the settlement of all other
matters, which you know are so disposed in my will, that should
I leave a wife with child of a daughter, my family would not be
sunk, and by a power left I can (in a codicil) make provision for
a daughter in that case. So that since the honour you have
done me in answering my servant Wheelock's letter so kindly, I
am in concern lest you should hasten your journey upon my
account, and therefore send to prevent your thoughts of that
kind. I believe I shall soon finish the affair. The lady's name
is Ewer, of a good old family and place in Hertfordshire ; her
mother a Montague, Lord Manchester's grand-daughter ; the
family long known to me, and related by the mother side. —
I am, dear sir, your faithful friend and humble servant.
TO JEAN LE CLERC.
REIGATE, November 6th, 1709.
SIR, — I received the other day a most acceptable present
from a most agreeable hand. I mean the fragments of Menander,1
from yourself. Nothing of that nature could have so delighted
1 Menander et Philemonis Reliquiae cum notis H. Grotii et
J. Clerici. Greek and Latin. Amsterdam, 1709, pp. 375. This work
was dedicated to Shaftesbury. The English translation of the dedication
may be found among his MSS. in the Record Office.
412 Letters.
me, unless it had been possible to have restored the poet entire.
For though I have often with passionate concern regretted the
loss of many authors of antiquity, as among the Romans what is
wanting of Titus, Livius, Tacitus, and some valuable pieces of
Cicero ; yet in respect of the Grecians we have been so fortunate
in the number of their books preserved, that (excepting some
works of philosophy, as those of the first and latter academies,
and other chiefs of sects, from whom Cicero has only copied),
I know not any lost authors that I have lamented as I have
done the moral and polite Menander, in whom the manners of
the Greeks, philosophy itself, with truth and nature, appeared
in such inimitable simplicity, and whose translator Terence I
value more than all the original moderns put together.
By this you may easily believe your present will not be
lost upon me, and that I shall hardly content myself with
barely reading the dedication, which is still so much the more
acceptable to me because so unlike a dedication in form.
You know me a lover of liberty and letters, and as I can
aspire to no honour I think so great, you have done me the
greatest in making me your friend upon such a foot.
To tell any one that he hates flattery is to flatter him. This,
if it be true, should be shown in fact; not told. The servile
manner of dedications has in reality brought things to such a
pass, that in pieces of that kind, the highest compliment to a
character is to be wholly silent on it.
It is long since I have held myself so much indebted to you,
that I earnestly wished for some occasion to acknowledge it by a
particular token of my respect. Nor could I content myself
with the few books I now and then sent you. If I have gone
further at present I can plead an established custom in the case
between authors who are professors in learning and men of the
world who are dignified with titles, so that I gladly lay hold of
the occasion of your dedication to justify me in making you a
present of the enclosed. I might otherwise perhaps have
scrupled the doing it. But I hope by this token, such as it
is, if you are so kind as to accept it, you will believe that as
I am ever ready to serve you with whatever credit or interest I
have, so you may freely command of me whatever at any time
in the way of expense you should have the least occasion for,
Letters. 413
KOI va yap ra TWV 0/Xwi/. [For friends have all things in common.]
I am, sir, your obliged friend and humble servant.
P.S. — When you are so kind as to let me hear from you at
any time, please to direct your letters to me to be left at Mr.
Norcott's, goldsmith, in the Strand, London. By this means,
whether I am in my own county or nearer the town (for my
health allows me not to live in it), your letters will come to me
the sooner.
TO GENERAL STANHOPE.i
REIGATE, November 7th, 1709.
DEAR SIR, — Your letter was a most obliging one, and as
yours, I may truly say the most obliging in the world.
It would be hard for one who had yet less vanity than
myself not to be flattered by the particular friendship of one
whom, as a stranger and without the bias of personal
acquaintance, they could not help esteeming and honouring
above all men. Had it been my fortune to have only known
you by character, I might have preferred my disinterestedness,
whilst I paid you that natural preference which was due to you
from one who pretends to rate men by their virtue and the love
they have to the interest of their country and mankind.
But you have long since given a check to the vanity I might
have of this sort, and have given me such a share in your heart
as makes my concern in everything that relates to you to be of a
nearer and more selfish kind. If anything remained yet to bind
me to you more, it was the turn you have taken in this letter
of yours, where you make me the confidant of your philosophy,
and are not ashamed to trust me with this secret of your thus
employing your leisure hours, in expeditions aboard fleets
and with the command of armies. For your comfort you
know well enough that though you have few companions
1 General James Stanhope (1673—1721), afterwards first Earl
Stanhope, served in the army with brilliancy and success during the
war in Spain, until made prisoner at Baihuega on 9th December, 1710.
He entered later upon a political career, and became Chancellor of the
Exchequer in the reign of George I.
414 Letters.
in this way among the moderns, you have the best of
ancient heroes to keep you in countenance, and that these
latter were not only used to carry with them the books of
philosophers, but their persons too, if they could tempt them
abroad. What I know of the matter will be always ready
at your command, and I shall rejoice if I can be a kind of
exercise to you as a fellow wrestler, though of less strength, in
this wholesome kind. For to tell you the real truth I don't only
esteem philosophy and letters to be the good nourishment and
preservative of the patriot and the statesman, but of the hero,
and that there is not, nor ever can be, a truly great man in
either way without this diet. It is the peculiar happiness of
such as these who mean the good of their country and interest
of mankind to have philosophy on their side. For there was
never yet any philosophy heard of that allowed of an ambitious
part in the public. Philosophers indeed there have been that
denied man to have any such instinct as that which led to the
good of society or his fellows, and consequently dissuaded him
from the public service and from obeying such unnatural
motions as these, if he found any such in himself. And this for
certain is most true, that if man be not by nature sociable, he is
the foolishest creature on earth to make society or the public the
least part of his real care or concern. But if when he tries to
shake off this principle, he has either no success or makes things
worse with him than before, it is a shrewd presumption of
what he is born to.
As for innate principles which you mention, it is, in my
opinion, one of the childishest disputes that ever was. Well it
is for our friend Mr. Locke, and other modern philosophers of
his sire, that they have so poor a spectre as the ghost of Aristotle
to fight with. A ghost indeed ! since it is not in reality the
Stagyrite himself nor the original Peripatetic hypothesis, but
the poor secondary tralatitious system of modern and barbarous
schoolmen which is the subject of their continual triumph.
Tom Hobbes, whom I must confess a genius, and even an
original among these latter leaders in philosophy, had already
gathered laurels enough, and at an easy rate, from this field.
It is the same old contest when rightly stated.
"Natura potest justo secernere iniquum" [Whether nature
Letters. 415
is able to discern right and wrong. — HOT., Sat., Bk. I., iii., 113].
"Quidve ad amicitias, usus rectumne, trahat nos" [What is it
which influences us to form friendships? — HOT., Sat.,Bk.II.,vi.,75.]
Not whether the very philosophical propositions about right
and wrong were innate; but whether the passion or affection
towards society was such : that is to say, whether it was natural
and came of itself, or was taught by art, and was the product of
a lucky hit of some first man who inspired and delivered down
the prejudice. For the opposers of the social hypothesis in
those days were not so over frighted with the consequences as
to deny every idea to be innate, lest this should be proved
to be so.
" Dente lupus, cornu taurus petit ; unde nisi intus monstra-
tum." [The wolf attacks with its teeth, the bull with its horns,
for what reason unless from some impulse from within. — #or.,Sat.,
Bk. II., i., 52.] They could allow nature to bestow ideas suitable
and proportionable to the organs, faculties, and powers she had
formed, as the idea of destruction from a precipice to a
quadruped without wings, and the idea of security in the air to
a volatile that had wings even before they were tried (for these
are facts we thoroughly see and know), so in the same manner
the idea of sucking and being sucked to a viviparous creature
that has teats, and to its offspring, which can subsist at first by
no other way, and though deprived of the means, discovers its
endeavour after it. — But all this I must leave to your author
and you after you have considered him with Locke, whose State
of Nature he supposes to be chimerical, and less serviceable to
Mr. Locke's own system than to Mr. Hobbes's, that is more of a
piece, as I believe. You will be satisfied more in particular
when you happen to read again what this latter gentleman has
written upon the subject of liberty and necessity,1 and have
compared it with Mr. Locke, as well as Mr. Locke with
himself, I mean his several editions one with another. For
he made great alterations on these points where, though a
divine may often waver, a philosopher, I think, never can.
For where the consequences of reasoning are not feared, there is
no subject (as I think I could plainly show) so easily brought to
1 Mr. Hobbes' " Letter about Liberty and Necessity, 1656."
416 Letters.
an issue as this last I have named, and which I therefore look
upon as the test and touchstone of a genius in philosophy. But
so tender the subject is, that none who have a real insight, and
withal a tenderness for mankind, will venture to treat formally
of a matter which can never be got over by low geniuses, and
can never so much as make a difficulty with any who impartially
and intrepidly philosophise.
Thus have I ventured to make you the greatest confidence
in the world, which is that of my philosophy, even against my
old tutor and governor, whose name is so established in the
world, but with whom I ever concealed my differences as much as
possible. For as ill a builder as he is, and as little able to treat
the home-points of philosophy, he is of admirable use against the
rubbish of the schools in which most of us have been bred up.
But if, instead of the phantom he opposed and had always before
his eyes, he had known but ever so little of antiquity, or been
tolerably learned in the state of philosophy with the ancients, he
had not heaped such loads of words upon us, and for want of a
sound logic (in which he shows himself pretty diffident) imposed
on himself at every turn by the sound of names and appellations,
whilst he is continually giving the alarm, and cautioning others
against the deceit. This you will find easily in him upon your
reading, if you take but any remarkable word of his, as in
particular the word law; which leads him into so many
labyrinths, and was the reason why, after having found out
other sorts of laws, he wanted a law for fashion and opinion.
And this according to him was virtue and honesty. As if writing
to the Italian or other good masters, or understanders of music,
he had said that the law of harmony was opinion ; or writing
to the maker of scholars in statuary or architecture, he had
said in general that the law of design or the law of beauty
in these designing arts had been opinion. Had Mr. Locke
been a virtuoso, he would not have philosophised thus. For
harmony is the beauty, the accord and proportion of sounds;
and harmony is harmony by nature, let particular ears be ever
so bad, or let men judge ever so ill of music. So is architecture
and its beauty the same, and founded in nature, let men's fancy
be ever so Gothic; for there is a Gothic architecture which is
false, and ever will be so, though we should all turn Goths,
Letters. 417
and lose our relish. The same is the case of virtue and honesty ;
the honestum and the decorum in society, for which you, my
friend, can never, I know, lose your relish.
I might make abundance of excuses for what I have written
if the subject I have been writing on had not communicated
something of the manners that belong to it, and turned me
from compliments to plain language. Allow me, then, in that
language, and with all the sincerity in the world, to thank you
for your kind expressions and services, particularly in young
Micklethwayt's concern. Your good friend and mine, Sir John
Cropley, is equally obliged with me by this favour you show.
I leave to him to write you of the public. I have said so much
on speculative matters of another kind, that I am scarce fit to
enter upon these subjects. The affairs of the North will try the
honesty and courage of our Ministry. The prospect is ill, but
they ought not to be frighted by it into a hasty peace, and if
right measures are taken to corroborate still more and more our
alliance and union with the Dutch, and strengthen the hearts of
our people at home, this plunge may redound more to the honour
of the two nations and happiness of Europe, by carrying the
point of liberty and balance further than first intended, or
thought of, so as to bring not Europe only but Asia (which is
now concerned), and in a manner the whole world, under one
community ; or at least to such a correspondence and intercourse
of good offices and mutual succour as may render it a more
humane world than it was ever known, and carry the interest of
human kind to a greater height than ever. — What a fortune is
that of our Ministry ! What single man or number of men had
ever yet such power in their hands. Such power (and may that
be the use they make of it) of doing good ! — I am, dear sir, your
obliged and ever faithful friend and obedient humble servant.
TO ARENT FURLY.
REIGATE, November 1th, 1709.
ME. FURLY, — I received yours with Mr. Stanhope's, to whom
the enclosed is an answer ; but as it is nothing like business, and
only fit for him to read at his leisure, pray for my sake too I
desire you give it him not till then after his other letters and
EE
418 Letters.
despatches are over, and that he has little or nothing to do. I
have not received yours yet by way of Lisbon. I am glad I
knew not to what danger Mr. Stanhope would have been
exposed till after the danger was over, and the ill-concerted
expedition at an end.
These alarms make me wish Mr. Stanhope well at home.
For he is not a general merely, but of greater use at home than
the greatest of those are abroad, and should the happiest success
there cost England his life, it would be dearly bought. I hope
he remembers the House of Commons and the home affairs of
the good people, as well as the brave troops of Britain, and
I hope his interest and esteem with both will grow alike.
I hope and I doubt not but you grow yourself in his esteem
and trust, which I am persuaded must make you grow still a
worthier man, were it only by considering that the reputation of
the greatest and best of men does in a great measure depend on
the character and behaviour of those they entrust; and if no
other principle (as I know you want none) could make you
endeavour to deserve the best, I am satisfied your affection and
gratitude of this kind would be sufficient.
I preach to you (you see) as heretofore, and am therefore, as
ever, your faithful and affectionate friend.
TO THOMAS WALKER.
REIGATE, April 23rd, 1710.
SIR, — I return you the leaf corrected as you desire. If the
purpose of your book (which I have never seen) be to treat of
the antiquity of families or family-seats, you may read what
relates to mine in Camden's Britannia on Dorsetshire ;
particularly in the notes added to a new edition some years
since. And in the same Camden's History of Queen Elizabeth
you will find Sir A. Ashley knighted on the taking of Cadiz, in
which expedition he served as Secretary of War, with a particular
commission from the Queen. If you go to great exactness on
the new matches and would mention the family on the lady's
side, you may observe that my wife's father (whose Christian
name the correction will show you to have been Thomas) was
Letters. 419
(till a few years since that he purchased Bushy Hall) always
written of the Lea, or of Lees Langly, which are estates
adjoining, and of the latter, of which the family is still
possessed, as they were also of Lees Langly (as I have found
by the Herald's Office), in direct descent from Richard Ewer,
living 34th of Henry 8th. My wife's mother is a Montague,
granddaughter to the Earl of Manchester, and her mother was
an heiress of the Baynards, of Wiltshire, from whom the present
Mr. Montague has his estate and seat of Lackham, in that county.
Your book must needs have been incorrect, since in two
places I have corrected my own name, which you will see right
spelt, as I subscribe. — Your humble servant, SHAFTESBURY.
[Address] : For Mr. Thomas Walker, in London.
TO BISHOP BURNET.
REIGATE, May 23rc?, 1710.
To THE BISHOP OF SARUM,
MY LORD, — The young man1 who delivers this to your
lordship is one who for several years has been preparing him
self for the ministry, and in order to it has, I think, completed
his time at the University. The occasion of his applying this
way was purely from his own inclination. I took him a child
from his poor parents, out of a numerous and necessitous family
into my own, employing him in nothing servile, and finding his
ingenuity, put him abroad to the best schools to qualify him for
preferment in a peculiar way. But the serious temper of the
lad disposing him (as I found) to the ministry preferably to
other advantages, I could not be his hindrance ; though till very
lately I gave him no prospect of any encouragement through
my interest. But having been at last convinced by his sober
and religious carriage, his studious inclination, and meek
behaviour, that it was real principle, and not a vanity or conceit,
that led him into these thoughts, I am resolved, in case your
lordship finds him worthy of the ministry, to procure him a
benefice as soon as anything happens in my power, and in the
meantime design to keep him as a chaplain in my family. —
I am, my lord.
1 Michael Ainsworth.
420 Letters.
TO LORD SOMERS
(With Soliloquy).1
REIGATE, May 26th, 1710.
MY LORD, — I rejoice that, as things have happened upon the
late combustion in the literate world, I can accost your lordship
in as cheerful a strain as this of the enclosed print, which will
be published in a day or two. Had not your lordship interposed
your good offices and interest in behalf of what was formerly
addressed to you, I should have been forced perhaps, against any
inclination, to have taken a graver tone and justified myself in
form. Not that I should be brought to do so in any case, except
where I thought there was really need of some public apology
and excuse. For your lordship well knows that I had little
intention of exposing that good Protestant bishop, or bringing
any contempt on our good Reformers of early times. What one
writes freely to a friend in private is very different from what
one writes for public view. I know what the meaning was of a
certain person whom I ever thought your lordship's friend and
servant, to act as he did in that affair and expose me in such a
manner to so many and such as he did. I hope he never will
betray your lordship, nor any friend of yours, in such a manner
hereafter. But of his character your lordship knows more and
will judge better than I. Though by late sore experience of my
own, and the knowledge of his behaviour in other families and
secret affairs, I have found what I long suspected, but was
unwilling to believe.
As for the former accident which happened by his means,
I am very far from being sorry for it, notwithstanding the
combustion it had like to cause, since it has led me into a power
of doing more good than my weak state of health would let me
hope. I am now in no apprehension of what may happen from
him or any other in such a way. I have written nothing since,
nor shall at any time for the future in such an incautious
manner as may give offence to people whom I esteem, or with
whom at least I think it my duty to keep fair. Let those whom
1 Shaftesbury's "Soliloquy or Advice to an Author" was published
anonymously in 1710.
Letters. . 421
I may happen to offend by this enclosed exclaim as they think
fit; I shall make no apology for myself, nor think of making
them any reparation. As enthusiastic as your friend is, he
resolves to be very discreet. So that if there be anything
entertaining in what is here presented to you, your lordship may
be diverted by it without regard to consequences, or to the
interest of one whom your good nature would incline you to be
concerned for, knowing how much he is and ever must be,
my lord, your lordship's most faithful friend and affectionate
humble servant.
TO MICHAEL AINSWORTH.
REIGATE, July 10th, 1710.
GOOD MICHAEL, — I believe, indeed, it was you expecting
me every day at that prevented your writing, since
you received orders from the good Bishop, my lord of Salisbury,
who, as he has done more than any man living for the good and
honour of the Church of England and the reformed religion, so
he now suffers more than any man from the tongues and slander
of those ungrateful Churchmen, who may well call themselves
by that single term of distinction, having no claim to that of
Christianity or Protestant, since they have thrown off all the
temper of the former and all concern or interest with the latter.
I hope whatever advice the great and good Bishop gave
you will sink deeply into your mind. I am willing you should
accept of the offer of a curacy under so good a divine and lover
of moderation as you describe. I would have you know,
however, that I designed taking you into the house this summer
at my coming to St. Giles, to give you, as I thought, the more
credit on your entering upon orders, not fearing that you would
receive any prejudice by it in your modesty and humility, when
I took you sometimes to my own table, and you had at all times
the convenience of my second table with those of good condition
and gentle circumstances. My bounty to you should withal
continue by being plentifully furnished with books (for I shall
bring my Chelsea library soon to St. Giles's, now I have been
forced to part with the house itself and live wholly from the
town). You will perhaps much better pursue your study there
422 ^ Letters.
than elsewhere. However, I charge you to make your judgment
of this impartially by yourself, and do accordingly, letting me
know, for I shall not set out this week. But by that time I can
have received an answer from you to this I am assured that
(if it please God no unexpected calamity befalls me) I shall be
coming to St. Giles's.
As for the Bishop's articles, they were sent to you long
since to place in my library. Should there be any mistake, or
should Mrs. Cooper have kept the books packed up, you may
show her this part of my letter, and desire her to open the
packet or books, that the books may be placed in the library,
and that you may lose 110 moment of time to benefit yourself
by study, especially by this which is immediately recommended
to you by your good superior, and is so worthy, great, and
learned a performance. . . .
I pray God to bless you in your new function with all the
true virtue, humility, and moderation, and meekness which
becomes it.
TO JEAN LE CLERC.
REIGATE, July I9th, 1710.
SIR, — It is one of the greatest pleasures I have to hear from
you, in common with the public, of what relates to learning and
knowledge, which you promote everywhere, and with more
advantage to the world (for it is the Protestant and free world
alone that I consider) than any other person I know in it besides.
But it is a more particular satisfaction still to hear from you in
private, and find that you esteem me, as I truly am, your
zealous and faithful friend. I am only sorry to find by this
affair you have imparted to me that you look upon the malice of
some enemy as so considerable and worthy your concern. What
you write me in your defence is sufficient against all the charge
of this disguised author. Nor could it be expected that you
should do more than collect and bring together those fragments
of Menander, which was only to give the world a taste. If it
relished the kind of literature, and you had found encourage
ment, you would have bestowed time and have gone farther
in the work, when a second edition had been required. This
Letters. 423
you gave us reason to hope, and in your preface recommended it
to the lovers of learning to send you their assistance. Instead of
it you are fallen upon with anger and malignity. I do not think
this will in any respect hurt your character or diminish the
esteem the public and all public-spirited men have for you. The
peevish temper of your adversary is sufficiently known, and his
judgment and wit as much undervalued as his learning and mere
scholarship is esteemed. But the affairs of the learned world
are come to that pass that if a man be really a scholar, it is
expected he should be a pedant, and partake of that captious,
insulting, emulous, and quarrelsome humour for which univer
sities are so famous.
It is strange that the bitterest quarrels should be those of
Christians, and that among Christian feuds and animosities the
most violent, and those carried on with the least quarter or
token of humanity or civility, should be such as are exercised
between the men who are set apart to keep the world in peace,
by the culture of letters and philosophy. I cannot but think
that in this sort of controversy the person who says least and is
the most patient, obtains the victory. Sure I am that when an
able and wise man, already in possession of the public ear,
is turned aside from his great purpose and daily labour of
instructing the world and raising the age to greater knowledge,
virtue, and liberty, when, I say, such a public benefactor is by
provocation drawn aside to encounter minutely and circum
stantially with those envious adversaries, who disturb him only
on this account, not he only, but the age itself, is a sufferer, and
the adversary triumphs over both. But such as yours is (if I
mistake him not) will in a short time betray himself very
grossly, and save you the trouble of exposing him to the world.
He who charges others for entering into parts of learning ior
w^hich they are not (as he pretends) sufficiently qualified, has
ventured upon a work, which, of all others, was the surest rock
for him to split on.
His Horace will be the most elaborate monster that the
learned world ever saw produced. He has mangled him and
torn him in pieces, so as that the author is scarce knowable in
his own text. I have seen many of his horrible corrections, and
not one of them but had been presumptuous, even in an annota-
424 Letters.
tion or in the margin. But he has frankly displaced the readings
of the manuscripts and all the ancient and new editions, to make
room for his own conceptions, which (as I told my Lord Halifax)
was, in my opinion, a defacing Horace in the worst manner in
the world; especially in so fair an edition and print as was
designed for it. This work of his you should (methinks) wait
for. You may do the world a kindness by warning it. Such
was the intolerable arrogance and rash decision of a very learned
man (but ever inexcusable) Daniel Heinsius, who thus abominably
treated Horace, and dismembered, dislocated, and inverted him
in places of all others the most correct, natural, fluent, and
beautiful to those who read Horace in another spirit and relish
than that of pedantry. It may be a subject worthy of you, to
show the mischief of such managers in the commonwealth of
letters, and what hereafter is like to become of ancient authors,
if they are thus treated by their editors.
But for personal matters and the controversy of this kind,
I hope you will not lose us so much of your time as to engage in
it according to those points of honour and notions of returns and
satisfactions which have introduced the way of duels among the
men of letters, and often force a peaceable and good man to act
contrary to the Christian or philosopher's part as well in this
way as the other.
I should write more particularly and plainly on these
matters had I time. But being obliged to take instantly a
journey into the West of England (where my concerns lie), and
this chiefly too on the public account, because of the ferment
which the seditious High-Churchman (Sacheverell) has raised in
those and other parts of the kingdom, I am forced to despatch
this with great haste and confusion. So can add no more, but
that I am, as you (I hope) believe me, your affectionate friend
and humble servant.
P.S. — Since I wrote this I happened to look over a paper
which comes out twice a week, and is sometimes very polite and
ingenious. If you cast your eye only to the last paragraph you
will see your adversary ingeniously reflected on by the name
of Poly-glottes.
[Address] : To Mr. Le Clerc, in Amsterdam.
Letters. 425
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
ST. GILES'S, 24*& Ji%, 1710.
I am sorry to hear the intended dissolution.1 It will be
dreadful to Europe. But if France miscarry in this one stroke
(for they have now found our weak side), woe be to the
instruments they have employed for this purpose, and double
woe to those apostate British men who have pushed this affair so
far, that if they do not at once carry all for France and the St.
Germain family, are for ever undone.
I value not what Parliament there is. We can have none
that will undo what the last has done and pronounced in the
cause of liberty and the revolution. All that they can do is to
strike at some particular men, who, if they are wise and bold,
may defy their enemies and make a quick turn upon them. If
they tamper and make terms, let them take their fate for their
pains.
Remember how things stood at the time of the Occasional
Conformity Bill ; how were we then used by the great ones,
whose heads are now in such danger ?
Remember when the poor Prince2 was brought with his
asthma-fits into the House of Lords to make a vote for that Bill,
and who they were that, a few hours after the King's death,
moved in the House of Lords to have the Convocation upon a
foot of equal session with the Parliament. They made us suffer
sufficiently. It is their turn to feel. Let them not murmur.
We are forgiving and are become their friends. But we must
and ought to have sound pledges. Let them strike thoroughly
and use their interest vigorously on the right side, and for the
cause they have espoused and nobly served abroad, and I will
engage my head for theirs, and forfeit my reputation of common
sense, if this Parliament be not chosen to heart's content. But
if they are shy or act by halves with us, or any degree under an
entire and absolute resignation, they must take what follows ;
if Europe be lost, we must all sink together. But if that be
1 Parliament was dissolved 21st September, 1710, the Whigs
giving place to the Tories in the elections which followed.
2 Prince of Denmark.
426 Letters.
saved by some good Providence, as it has been already in greater
dangers, then we shall swim, but they sink who have acted
timorously and refused to put their whole interest without
reserve on that party which alone has the power to save them.
In haste, adieu.
P.S. — If you understand not the language I write in, either
of the chief Oak-Lords, but chiefly the first, would be able to
explain it.
TO LORD GODOLPHIK
REIGATE, January 29£/t, 1710 (11).
MY LORD, — In the height of ungrateful times, and in the
midst of those experiences you have had of that kind, I have
assurance enough to believe that, though your lordship has
neither seen nor heard from me for some time, you believe me
one of those whose gratitude on a public account makes them
now more zealously than ever your adherents and real friends.
What thoughts your lordship may have of the worth of mankind
in general I know not. For these are trying times. But as
long as you have in your mind a single reserve, and can believe
there is in your nation one single lover of its interest, you may
safely assure yourself that, though you know not the person,
you have certainly a friend full of zeal and indignation on your
account. You may be sure that such a one does with higher
honour and esteem than ever espouse your interest, which, as it
was proved once by the highest blessings and successes, so now
by the contrary is like to be thoroughly proved the interest both
of prince and country.
In this calamity,1 my lord, you will have only your single
share. But you have certainly been above all men blessed in
having almost all mankind, and even your enemies, conscious
with you of the good you did, and the benefit the world and
common cause received under your ministry. If envy could
1 Lord Godolphin was commanded by Queen Anne on the 8th of
August, 1710, to break his staff of Lord Treasurer, which he had held
for ten years, the trial of Dr. Sacheverell having caused an ultra-Tory
reaction.
Letters. 427
have place where honesty and a public spirit prevails, your
lordship might the soonest of all men be envied by the generous
and good. Far am I, for my own part, from condoling with
you. Nor could I, on the other side, be so partial to a friend
against my country as on this account to congratulate with your
lordship, if I might have the honour to treat you on this foot of
friendship. I must own it, however, a temptation. For well,
methinks, I taste your present quiet, and could sympathise in
the ease and comfort of such an honourable recess.
Could you imagine, my lord, that anything but necessity
could keep from you so long an humble servant of yours, who
has sincerely such sentiments as these he writes ? You must
think him surely in an ill way, if not already out of the world.
Indeed, my lord, you may reasonably think so. I have not at
this moment so much strength or breath left me as would serve
to speak half what I have here imperfectly written. The winter
season has almost killed me, and I have no prospect if I escape
to pass another in this climate unless the air of a warmer
happens to set me up. I am importuned by my friends to go to
Florence or Naples, and I have the vanity to think myself so
much yours, and, as such, depended on by your lordship, that I
could not take the resolution without informing you ; as my
friend and your bound servant, who present you this, will be
able to do more particularly, and as a witness for me how much
I am, my lord, your lordship's most obliged and most faithful,
humble servant.
TO LORD DARTMOUTH.1
REIGATE, January 29*/t, 1710 (11).
MY LORD, — The subject of the enclosed petition will be my
apology for not waiting on your lordship with it, having not
been able since the winter season to stir out of my chamber.
The early acquaintance I had the honour to make with your
lordship, and the sense I then had of your merit and obliging
Legge, first Earl of Dartmouth (1672-1750), became
Secretary of State on 15th June, 1710, upon the dismissal by Queen
Anne of the Earl of Sunderland.
428 Letters.
qualities, gives me the confidence to depend on your good offices,
in representing me with favour to Her Majesty, that having
been ever full of duty towards her, and thoroughly zealous in
the interest of her Government, I may with Her Majesty's leave,
and under her protection, obtain my passage through France
early this spring, to recover, by the only means remaining, that
health, which together with my life, or whatever else I enjoy,
would readily be spent in Her Majesty's service, and the support
of her honour and interest. — I am, with great respect, my lord,
your lordship's obedient, humble servant.
TO LORD HALIFAX.
REIGATE, February 23rd, 1710 (11).
MY LORD, — There being a young gentleman newly come
into the world,1 who has the honour of being related to your
lordship, both by his father's and mother's side, it is hoped your
lordship will not refuse being made a party to the ceremony of
giving him a name. When he comes hereafter into the wider
world, to learn his part in it, it will be his highest advantage
to be bred under you, and become your charge. It is peculiar,
my lord, to your character to have a generous concern for the
youth in general, and it would be hard if such a youth as this
should escape you, who, if ever any was, may be said to be born to
liberty, and devoted to the interests of those who are the lovers
and defenders of it. For whatever motives other parents may
have had, his (I am sure) had never met but in this view. And
it will be satisfaction enough to his father, however short his
life may be, if he can flatter himself with the prospect of
leaving to his friends and party a successor, who, either by his
name, his interest, or his genius (if he should be so blessed), may
in the least contribute to their service.
A word more, my lord, I will venture to add in my own
person, for by this time I may presume my fatherly affection
has betrayed me. It is to beg that, if your lordship grants the
favour I have asked for my son, you would remember him
1 Shaftesbury's only child and heir, the fourth Earl, was born on
the 9th of February, 1711.
Letters. 429
hereafter as your Whig-godson ; and if I am no longer in the
world to inspect his education, that you would esteem yourself
concerned for him in this public sense. I have known it, my
lord, laid roundly to your charge by the gentlemen of certain
fatal seminaries that you were a general corrupter of the youth.
For my own part, I have no heartier prayer than that my son
may strongly take the infection. Whatever his faults or vices
may prove, I shall have enough to compensate all, if I can flatter
myself with the hope of his inheriting that principle by which
he will be inseparable from his country's interest and from
those who best support it. And thus I anl sure he must ever
prove, as his father has long been and is, with the greatest
respect, my lord, your lordship's most obedient humble servant.
TO LORD HOWE.1
REIGATE, 26th March, 1711.
MY LORD, — The honour of your relation, and particular
friendship, to which I have had so early and long a claim,
assures me of a favour which I have to beg of your lordship, in
which I have reason to believe you can easily do me a very
particular service. It is only to give my character (which your
lordship may more justly do than any one) to a person on whom
I must chiefly, if not wholly, rely, for the obtaining my pass
through France to Italy, where I am advised to go for my
health's sake, having no hopes of recovery but from a hotter
climate. As much an Englishman as your lordship knows me
to be, you can satisfy your country neighbour (of whose honour
I have ever heard very advantageously) that I am one who
neither for my religion's, my country's, nor my Prince's sake,
would do a dishonourable act, such as that would be in the
highest degree, if, obtaining a passage through France, I should
make that nation or Prince receive the least injury from the
favour granted me. On the contrary, I should surely be grateful
to my power as far as honour could carry or permit me. And if
Howe, 1st Viscount Howe (1648 — 1712), a staunch
Whig.
430 Letters.
that great man * of the French nation, who, notwithstanding his
present misfortunes, has very justly a high credit and influence
at that Court, could be apprised of this plain and honest
character, which I can boldly claim to be my due, I am
confident I need not fear being suspected of any mystery, or
any engagement with our Home Ministry or Court, or that
I am any way capable of acting a feigned part to serve
any cause or Prince on earth, so as to make an unworthy
use of a favour, to which, if granted to me, I shall probably
owe my life. This is all I think fit to express in paper,
committing the rest to your lordship's management in
behalf of me. — I am, my lord, your lordship's most faithful,
obedient, humble servant.
[To Lord Howe.]
P.S. — Whatever particulars relating to my affair your lord
ship is willing to be informed of, my worthy friend Sir John
Cropley will explain to you in the best manner.
TO LORD SOMERS.
REIGATE, March 30^, 1711.
MY LORD, — The works2 of your enthusiastic friend (dis
abled in most other workmanship and service) I presume to send
you thus, one volume after another as they come out of the
press. For one who is your lordship's friend and the public
should manage time for you the best he can. And by this
method you may have spare minutes now and then to tumble
over what you have read before with what is newly added, to
render it complete and of a piece with what remains, the third
volume being wholly new.
The whole work should have of right been dedicated to
your lordship, you have reason sufficient to conclude, as well
as that it would have been the highest satisfaction to the author
1 Probably James Fitzjames, Duke of Berwick.
2 Shaftesbury's " Characteristics of Men, Manners, Opinions,
Times," appeared in three volumes in 1711.
Letters. 431
to sign himself thus publicly your devoted friend and servant.
But there are reasons again on the other hand which your lord
ship well knows for suppressing this ambitious forwardness and
zeal ; that your lordship may be no further dipt (as our modern
phrase is) than as you are already. It would be the highest
advantage to a certain party that your lordship should stir a
step out of your character, or seem to act against them in any
other capacity than that in which you have hitherto moved.
For as in a ship that goes with wind and tide and carries us
prosperously and to heart's content we hear nothing but
steady ! steady ! so is it with your character, and so would I
have it continue ; that no noise may be heard from any side but
that of steady. Let others tack as occasion or shift their sails
as occasion serves. It is joy to me to see you hold the
helm as steady as you still do. Even now amidst the storm
it is joy to me to remember that there was once a time
when one pilot alone advised putting off to sea and saved us
from riding securely in a calm, upon a coast where, if we had
remained ever so little, we must inevitably have perished. How
naturally every man loves his pilot when he is himself abroad
with all his goods and effects is easily understood. For my own
part, I have learnt almost from the moment of my birth to
embark myself with the public, and to have no other bottom
than that alone. How tender, therefore, I naturally am of my
pilot your lordship may easily imagine. And though as an
enthusiast I could readily cast myself away, and be a Jonah
for the advantage of the ship, yet I can truly boast that I am
more sparing of the pilot than any one in the vessel. And for
that reason I have, within the space of a twelve month, been
strong in my resentment against those of the crew who mutiny
because their pilot, taking his proper measures and working in
his own way, is not at every turn ready upon the deck to do
common drudgery, and expose himself equally in every capacity
besides. Whether the mere deck or quarter-deck would have
been my own station had I been able to keep my legs, I know
not. Sure I am, however, that I should never have spared
myself (as I never did when able), though I have many smiling
friends (and particularly a late Minister, kinsman, and old
companion of mine) to put a query upon this head, and call
432 Letters.
in doubt a resolution and public zeal which may venture
to say is at least a pin higher than their own. But "facile
omnes cum valemus rectu consilia grotis damus." I could
counsel, too, in my turn where I myself am sound, and
others not so thoroughly proof as to bear ordinary raillery.
But let who will rail or make slight of me, they shall
never suffer by it whilst the public receive any advantage
by them.
By this third volume of Chamber-Practice your lordship
will find that if my good humour be quite spent, I have courage,
however, left to attack and provoke a most malignant party
with whom I might easily live on good terms to all the advantage
imaginable. Their blessed fountains of virtue and religion were
never perhaps thus searched before. The poisonous principles,
indeed, which they dispense under a religious appearance have
been often exposed, whilst their sovereignty in arts and sciences,
their presidents in letters, their alma maters and academies, have
been acknowledged and taken for granted. They who treated
the poor Presbyterians as impolite, unformed, without rival
literature or manners, will perhaps be somewhat moved to find
themselves treated in the same way, not as corrupters merely of
morals and public principles, but as the very reverse or antipodes
to good breeding, scholarship, behaviour, sense, and manners.
For should this grow credible, and take either with our growing
youth or their grown parents, I hope endowed seminaries might
chance to make a much worse figure, and the October Club prove
less considerable than at present in that height to which a
modern statesman (not of their own kind) has to his country's
danger, and perhaps to his own plague hereafter, exalted in
our senate.
But this, perhaps, may be an insinuation too advantageous,
and savouring of the fatherly love of an author towards his
own offspring. When the three volumes are finished (as the
next month they probably will be), I shall presume to send
your lordship another copy of the whole in better paper and in
sheets, that if your lordship thinks it worth binding for your
library, you may assign it what place or habit you like best-
— I am, my lord, your lordship's most faithful friend and humble
servant.
Letters. 433
TO LADY WALDEGRAYE.1
REIGATE, May 4<th, 1711.
MADAM, — Had my fortune never allowed me the honour of
knowing you otherwise than as your character and your high
birth distinguishes you to all, I should have been more surprised
with the generous and obliging part I have experienced, and
with the extreme goodness and favour by which I am likely
to receive even my life itself at your hands. But as I have
the happiness to remember an early time when, amidst all the
honours that were paid you, you distinguished yourself more by
your goodness, condescension, and humility, than by any other
princely titles or greatness that belonged to you, you will allow
me, who once treated and must ever treat you on the same foot
of profound respect and highest honour, to acknowledge still
your superior character and highest quality; that of your
readiness to do good, and to employ yourself in whatever is
generous and worthy of yourself.
I am so sensible, madam, how fully you possess this merit,
that I dare flatter myself you will be able to judge my
acknowledgments and sense of it ; and that as distant as I
am, and out of the knowledge of that great and worthy prince
(your brother, my Lord Duke of Berwick2), I may be represented
to him, however, as one not wholly unworthy of the favour
which at your desire he has procured me, of passing through
France, to the warmer climates where I can alone hope to
recover my health, of which I shall henceforward be the
more desirous, that I may live in some measure to acknowledge
how much I am, with the highest obligation and most
profound respect, madam, your most obedient and most humble
servant.
1 Henrietta Fitzjames, the natural daughter of James, Duke of
York, afterwards James II., married November 29th, 1683, Baron
Henry Waldegrave.
2 James Fitzjames, Duke of Berwick (1670-1734), the natural
son of James II., by Arabella Churchill, sister of the great Duke
of Marlborough, was in 1711 Marshal of France.
FF
434 Letters.
TO MICHAEL AINSWORTH.
REIGATE, \\tli May, 1711.
I am glad the time is come that you are to receive full
orders, and that you hope it from the hand of our worthy, great,
excellent Bishop,1 my Lord of Salisbury.
This is one of the circumstances I hope may help to insure
your steadiness in honesty, good principles, moderation, and true
Christianity, now set at nought and at defiance by the far
greater part and numbers of that body of clergy called the
Church of England, who no more esteem themselves a Protestant
church, or in union with those of Protestant communion, though
she pretend to the name of Christian, and would have us judge
of the spirit of Christianity from theirs, which God prevent, lest
good men should in time forsake Christianity through their
means. As for my own part of charity and friendship towards
you and your poor family in other respects, as well as this of
breeding and raising you to this capacity of the sacred office you
are to take, I shall be sufficiently recompensed if you prove (as
you have ever promised) a virtuous, pious, sober, and studious
man, as becomes the solemn charge belonging to you. You have
been brought into the world, and come into orders, in the worst
time for insolence, riot, pride, and presumption oi clergymen
that I ever knew or have read of, though I have searched far
into the characters of high churchmen from the first centuries
that they grew to be dignified with crowns and purple, to the
late times of our Reformation and to our present age.
The thorough knowledge you have had of me and of the
direction of all my studies and life to the promotion of religion,
virtue, and the good of mankind will, I hope, be of some good
example to you. At least, it will be a hindrance to your being
seduced by infamy and calumnies such as are thrown upon the
men called moderate, and in their style indifferent in religion,
heterodox, and heretical.
God send you all true Christianity, with that temper, life,
and manners which become it. I am your hearty friend,
SHAFTESBURY.
1 Bishop Burnet.
Letters. 435
TO LORD GODOLPHIN.
REIGATE, May 27th, 1711.
MY LORD, — Being about to attempt a journey to Italy, to
try what a warmer climate (if I am able to reach it) may do
towards restoring me a little breath and life, it is impossible for
me to stir hence till I have acquitted myself of my respects the
best I can to your lordship, to whom alone had I but strength
enough to make my compliments, and pay a day's attendance in
town, I should think myself sufficiently happy in my weak state
of health.
I am indeed, my lord, little able to render services of any
kind ; nor do I pretend to offer myself in such a capacity to any
one except your lordship only. But could I flatter myself that
ever I parted hence, or while I passed through France, or stayed
in Italy, I could anywhere, in the least trifle, or in the highest
concern, render any manner of service to your lordship, I should
be proud of such a commission.
Sure I am in what relates to your honour and name (if that
can receive ever any advantage from such a hand as mine) your
public as well as private merit will not pass unremembered in
whatever region or climate I am transferred. No one has a
more thorough knowledge in that kind than myself. Nor no
one there is who, on this account, has a juster right to profess
himself as I shall ever do, with the highest obligation and most
constant zeal, my lord, your lordship's most faithful and most
obedient, humble servant, SHAFTESBURY.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.i
DOVER, 2nd July, 1711.
SIR, — This word only as to Mr. Coste. I beg you that as
his friend, for such I know you are, you would remind him of
what I strictly left in charge with him as to his own concerns
and interest ; that by no art or artifice he would be drawn in
again, to think of parting with an annuity which I helped to
1 This letter is the first in Shaftesbury's " Copy Book of Letter
from my departure from England in July, 1711, to March 22nd
(inclusive), being then in Naples, 1712."
436 Letters.
procure for him, and to which I have in kindness to him annexed
another of at least equal value to be a security for him against
all necessity, or very ill fortune hereafter. This I charged him
with, before all our friends at supper, last time at Reigate, with
this addition : That I would not have his friends in the world
(especially since he had hopes now of having some that were in
a way of greatness) pretend on his account that they needed not
concern themselves for his interest or fortune, since he was now
already provided for and engaged than as he has no better
preferment, and that I love him too well to let him be at a loss,
or so employed as is unfit for him, or below him.
A good place of any kind, or in any rich family, to travel
or otherwise serve in the education of youth would be as much
to his advantage as Lord Ashley's hereafter, who in five or six
years will claim to be his charge, and receive the benefit of his
knowledge and experiences in the affairs of youth and education.
Meanwhile, I shall expect Mr. Coste with me as occasion
serves for his journey, if his friends do nothing for him ; as for
France, I despair of his passing.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
PAKIS, August llth, 1711.
By my last you will hear how I have fared, what strength I
have got by my rest here after my sad fatigue and fit of my
asthma on the road, and what I am making to get out of this
kingdom as fast as my sad health will suffer me. So to-morrow,
if I hold tolerable, I set out for Lyons, where I must determine
which way to pass the soonest and safest over the mountains,
which I am in hopes to do in a litter for my wife and self, and
by the shortest way, without going round by Switzerland or
Geneva, which might be very severe for me and retard my
passage till the ill season came to pass the mountains. By what
my wife writes to her sister, and what you will hear by Mrs.
Skinners, you will be informed of all little particulars relating
to me. I must be forced to be short this post, and would have
been contented to have omitted writing this time myself, but
for that affair of which I cannot write by any hand but my own.
You may believe how it vexed me to find the application which
Letters. 437
was made (as you tell me) of one of the imaginary characters in
" Characteristics." By good chance Mr. Crelle had put up the foul
unbound copy which had been dirtied in your pocket, a part of the
last volume where those characters stand. I presently called for
them, and read them over to consider what such a turn might
produce, and I was more vexed when I considered the thing by
the first impression it made on me. Afterwards, when I was
more cool, I came to this issue in my own thoughts : that in the
first place, if I had hurt a friend, I was, however, conscious to
myself of a far contrary intention. And consciousness,
according to that author (if he be not an hypocrite and an
impostor), is the best comfort and soundest satisfaction in this
world when it is honest and has sincerity and innocence on its
side. So that let what friend soever be piqued, or what
enemy soever more exasperated, if just occasion was never
given, let appearances stand as they will, there is no subject
of long vexation or trouble. This, however, I must desire
of you (and I owe it to the inviolated private friendship
and affection I have ever preserved for that honoured
person and family under all difficulties, misfortunes, and
differences, from my earliest youth to this moment) that
you would represent this honest protestation I make to you
about this affair, which you may well do, who were the witness
to the haste in which that latter part was written, and the
liberty which the author gave to himself and to the heat of
his imagination in this rapidity of writing, far different from
the cooler and more sedate accurate sheets of the preceding
volumes, where everything was deliberate and more maturely
considered. This, too, you know, that to this very hour I know
not the person whom perhaps I may have made an enemy at
this rate, by repeating a sentence of a friend of ours upon his
behaviour in the House of Commons. You know I guessed the
person to have been one now in high employment, but you
protested to me it was not he and you would let me know no
more. In this case I may honestly say, and without affectation,
that justice was blind. The author knew no friend or enemy,
no party or side, no Ministry or interest besides the public's,
when he wrote in this vein of satirical humour. I take it
for granted that the same malicious interpreting wits have
438 Letters.
assigned other real characters to every imaginary one, and so
the characters adjoining (that, I mean, of the old church-patriot 1
gained by Court favour) may be assigned to Lord Rochester,2
at least I am persuaded it would have been so applied by the
same rule, and with the same reason, had he been alive. I am
sure if the person I am concerned for considers it in such a
view, he may find full as plausible a foundation, and yet I can
say it with the sincerest truth, that the thought of such a lord
or present Minister never came into my head, as often as you
have heard me say that of late I looked upon that great lord
indeed to have sacrificed his party and acted that very part
described.
Be it as fortune or as the genius of the great man is like to
determine of it, whether he thinks me sincere in this, or contrari
wise ! as the appearances are ; this, after all, I will venture to
affirm, that let malice do its worst in this case, or let what
application soever be made of that character, there is yet room
left from that very foundation (considering that it is a
philosopher who speaks) to make out as great a character as the
greatest statesman of these last ages could ever claim, not
excepting even my grandfather, for whose memory I have so
partial a zeal. — But I have outwrit my paper and my strength,
so, dear friend, adieu !
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYT.
PARIS, llth August, 1711 [N.S.]
DEAR COIL, — ... If the success of certain papers
be as you represent, I may hope for power and ability even
yet in my life, to render both public and private services at
a season of my life and in circumstances in which I despaired
of being of further service in the world. For a fame in
these cases is all in all. He who is master once of the public
ear is in possession of the highest power, if he has wit and
^'Characteristics" iii., p. 170.
2 Laurence Hyde, Earl of Rochester (1641-1711), was a member
with Godolphin and Sunderland of the first Tory Administration to
control under that name English national affairs.
Letters. 439
a character on his side. Opinion of power (as a philosopher
says) is in this case truly power. I am sorry for the
unthought-of sting which is fixed to the tail of one of the
characters. But to repair that injury, you will see what I have
written to Sir John this post, which I once again leave to his judg
ment whether to show or not. This, too, I would have him add
from me ; and would he take my opinion, he should not out of
fear (as happened about a year since) decline the freedom and
open manner. " That at the worst, allowing the whole world to be
possessed of this fancy, and falsely prejudiced in the imagination
of such a real intended picture ; yet if the painter's hand can be
esteemed and rated so highly by his countrymen as to be thus
narrowly scanned and weighed, each casual line or accidental
sally of humour or fancy, it is in the power of the same hand not
only to do justice to himself where he has been misconstrued
and to the great person whom he has seemed to wound, but even
to make over and above reparation, and from that very error of
the public to take fresh ground and new advantages the more
disinterestedly and powerfully to represent one day, both his
own private friendship and the particular merit of that friend,
who by the effect of his counsels and ability will (as I doubt not)
soon prove to all Europe, as well as to England, the different
foundation which his Ministry and measures have had from
what his enemies represent and what in general the world has
been ready to believe."
This, for my part, would I say firmly and boldly were I to
speak for myself, or (as I should more properly say) for you,
since in reality, were it my own case, I should not so much as
bestow a thought further than this : " that if a great Minister,
who ought to know the worth of my friendship, would take
a fancy to lose it for a surmise of fancy, a forced interpretation
made on a free pen, let him suffer the loss ; his own will be the
greater than the honest man's, who loved him better, perhaps,
than any one besides, and beyond what he deserved if he were
capable to conceive a pique or a disturbance on such a matter."
As for Mr. Coste's concern, you will by this time (if he
shows you my letter to him, which I wrote from hence) see my
naked and unfeigned regard and concern for him; and that if
he understands friendship, he will find enough in it to think
440 Letters.
he has a real friend. My very resolution turned so much on him
and on his being with me, that after a fruitless fresh attempt
to have leave for him to be with me in France I determined
positively for Italy, when I had reason enough (as I still have)
to decline the danger of so terrible a journey as that to Italy
through armies, wasted countries, and mountains in a doubtful
season. For the rains if not the snows will be coming ere I shall
(as I fear) be able to pass that way. But all my measures
are taken for my journey to-morrow morning to Lyons, instead
of Montpelier, which was the only place I thought of on my first
arrival here after the sad fit of my asthma I had on the road by
those fatigues I suffered. Besides my friendship and real
kindness for Mr. Coste, it is my interest as well as his (if I hope
anything from him for Lord Ashley hereafter), to have him
in employment in the world, if employment worthy of him be
found, as I rejoice to hear by him that there is. His improvement,
his experiences, and acquisitions of this kind will be Lord
Ashley's1 good hereafter. Mr. Coste wants not men of letters
or speculation. Practice of the world and converse and business
will be his better scene. My own loss in him will be repaired by
this reflection : that I had at last settled everything for his meeting
me in Italy. Pray assure him of all this fully, and of my constant
friendship, since I cannot write myself by this post to him. Kind
dues to the Beach worth family; love and blessing to your brother
Jo.2 Services to the club, all that kindly inquire for me. I grieve
to hear of my apostate disciple, Arent, that after ruining his health
by vicious courses and raking he should with that sad remainder
of life and health have embarked in such a new and contrary
service after having got an honest maintenance, and served with
such honour under so great a soul as Stanhope, whom in his
present ill-fortune3 he could have nobly complimented by for-
1 Pierre Coste, who had been tutor of Frank Masham until the
death of Locke. As he was a French Protestant, it was not possible
for him, owing to the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, to accompany
Shaftesbury through France. Shaftesbury evidently designed, however,
to employ him later as a tutor for Lord Ashley.
2 Both Joseph Micklethwayt and Arent Furly were with General
Stanhope during the Peninsular campaign.
3 As prisoner of the Spanish.
Letters. 441
saking all business for his sake, and till he was restored to what
his merits to his country entitle him. I congratulate with Jo
that he has so happy an opportunity to express his zeal, tender
ness, and love of such a master. God grant this younger disciple
of mine may profit by this occasion and example. Adieu.
TO THE DUKE OF BERWICK.1
LYONS, 28th August, 1711.
MY LORD, — By the kind good offices and friendly regard so
noted in your grace's character towards your countrymen, and
in so particular a manner experienced by myself, I am at last
with much difficulty arrived at a place in France where I have
first of all perceived in some degree the advantage of the hot
climate, which I have been obliged to seek as the only preserva
tive of a ruinous health. And I now flatter myself that if, by
your grace's great favour so kindly offered me in yours to Mr.
Furly, I may happily pass the mountains in a good season
(so as to get as far southward at least as Rome before the
winter comes), there may be still hope for me that I may
enlarge my term of life, so as to be able to acknowledge here
after in a better manner how much I owe it to your grace's
favour and friendship. For without this and the encourage
ment given me by my Lady Walgrave's great goodness and
concern in my behalf, I had never attempted, or at least never
succeeded in the attempt of such journey as this. At present,
my lord, I am forced to remain here at Lyons for a few days to
recover strength, which I so much want, and to prepare myself
for my further journey by Grenoble, whence your grace is
pleased to mention your convoying me to Mount Cenis, or
where I may have assurance of safety by a pass from the Duke
of Savoy,2 to which my double passes and leave from both
1 The Duke of Berwick was at this time, as a marshal of France,
in command of the French troops on the borders of Piedmont. It
was thus necessary for Shaftesbury to be convoyed by him through
the French forces in order to reach Italy.
2 The Duke of Savoy was a British ally, whose Italian dominions
Shaftesbury now sought to enter.
442 Letters.
Courts may, I presume, entitle me. What application I am to
make, your grace will please inform me. I shall wait here your
grace's commands, whether to myself directly or by Mons. de
Melliant, the Intendant from whom on your grace's account I
have already received the greatest favours and civilities.
I humbly beg your grace's pardon for the ill manner of this
writing, of which my present weakness and cough is the
occasion. I should be sorry my hand should take off from what
my heart is so zealous to express, how much I am, with thorough
obligation and respect, my lord, your grace's most faithful and
most obedient, humble servant.
TO THE DUKE OF BERWICK.
LYONS, September 5th, 1711.
MY LORD, — Having received the honour of your grace's
most obliging letter and pass1 this morning, with the account
of the kind provision you have been at the pains to make for
enabling me to pursue my journey in my present weak state,
I resolve to come forwards towards your grace in a litter from
hence to-morrow morning, that I may the sooner (if at all able)
attend your grace, and acknowledge to you personally what
I shall endeavour to do, by all possible ways, the great and
unspeakable obligations by which I am, and must remain, your
grace's most faithful, obedient, and most humble servant.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
TURIN, 3rd October, 1711.
It was about two or three days after I had written my first
to you from Paris, that I received your first, of which you have
since sent me the copy in your second, which I have received since
I came hither. I should have written to you again presently from
Paris on the receipt of yours, but being pressed in time, and
writing by the next post to our common friend Mr. Micklethwayt,
I satisfied myself with letting you know by him the real satis-
1The original passport in French accompanies this letter in
the MSS.
Letters. 443
faction I received in hearing of your advancement in a station
befitting and becoming you. Could you doubt my sentiments
on this occasion ? Has not my whole conduct tended to make
you known and be esteemed according to what I esteem your
merit ?
If all the world had forsaken or forgotten you, think you
that you would at last have been less rated, or with less welcome
and heartiness received into my obscure retreat and little family ?
I can assure you I have such thoughts of your friendship that
I can easily flatter myself, as sickly and melancholy a state
as mine is, you could be well satisfied to bear me company in it,
if the want of you abroad, and the claim of other friends whom
you might serve in an active sphere, did not make me protest
against it, and refuse to take you from what was more your own
and a public good. Pray think no more of my friendship for
you, on the foot of this last year or two ; you know it of longer
date. It was stamped and fixed before travelling was thought
of, or a wife or a child. These circumstances are apt to raise an
ill dust with those who have not very strong eyes in friendship.
And interest, interest comes in ever and anon, and must seem a
kind of key to things with which it has nothing to do.
When I first took you as a friend, I happened, unfor
tunately (though with good meaning), to have a hand in making
a bargain, which afterwards proved no very advantageous one,
and had like to have proved much worse had I not, with some
friends, supported your interest with some vigour. Your recom
pense from that family, though a small one, yet to a person in
such circumstances as yourself is of more than double or treble
the ordinary value. This I often explained to you, and by what
I represented and acted for you in that affair, I have engaged
you (as you have solemnly promised me) not to part with
that small annuity to which you know in what manner I have
added, that all future prospects may be easy to you, and a mere
dependency may not be your lot. That this is free to you and
under no obligation as it comes from me, I hope you believed
long since, and accepted so when you knew it.
If my child lives, his guardians, who will know the value I
set on you, will make the care and charge of him the greater
advantage to you, and would bid higher to gain you (if it stood
444 Letters.
on interest merely) than any other governor or friend besides.
But Lord Ashley, by his good leave, has nothing to do here.
Glad I am you saw him, knew him, and early loved him. I
hope, too, you will call and see him often. But, as I tell you,
these matters were before he was thought of ; and the providing
for you was my care before I had the thought of being either a
husband or a father. If my espousing you as a friend has been
any occasion that others have the more warmly espoused your
interest or considered you the more, it is a double satisfaction to
me and no disappointment that you are taken from me to a good
employment in the world; and I must confess the prospect is the
more satisfactory, since I find the prospect of my living is so
much straitened, and that the passage of the Alps has just
brought me to death's door, &c.
[Address] : To Mr. Coste, at London.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.1
TURIN, *lili September, 1711.
SIR, — By that time you receive this letter I shall probably,
if alive, be very near the honour of waiting on you at Florence,
for I set out in a litter for that place from hence to-morrow
morning.
Having been brought last winter almost to death's door by
my persecuting distemper (the asthma), to which you have
known me long subject, I left England at the pressing desire of
all my friends and physicians, who told me nothing could be of
service towards my recovery without the benefit of the warmth
and air of Montpelier, or some place as southern at least and
mild in Italy. I had the Queen's leave to have stopped at
Montpelier, or where I pleased in France, and I was civilly
offered the favour from the French Court when I passed at
Paris. But I was unwilling to owe more to France than
merely the favour of a passage through the country. So I
ventured to come hither over the Alps, where I suffered so much
1 John Molesworth (1670 — 1726), the second Viscount Molesworth
and son of Robert, was for many years the English Plenipotentiary in
Tuscany.
Letters. 445
in my weak state that I have lain almost dying these three
weeks at this place, which I had much ado to reach, and though
a little recovered within this day or two, can scarce hope to
reach Naples, the place assigned me by all that are knowing in
my case.
If I can but reach to such a friend as you, I shall think
myself happy, particularly in having yet an opportunity of
assuring you of the sincere honour and esteem with which I
have long held your father's family, and in consequence as well
as on account of your particular worth and merit. Your most
faithful friend and humble servant.
[Address] : To Mr. Molesworth, at Florence.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
ROME, November 6th, 1711.
By the blessing of a most happy season during my journey,
by the goodness and warmth of the climate, and by the easiness
of that usual carriage in this country — a litter, I am come
through in the weakest and lowest condition imaginable to this
city, and within less than a week's journey more of Naples, my
intended resting-place, and that from whence I have my only
hopes of recovery, having out of unwillingness to owe so great
an obligation to the French Court, refused their offer of wintering
or staying as long as I pleased at Montpelier, and there being no
air or place of health (in my case) equal to Montpelier, except
Naples, to gain which I have gone and am to go so far. But
though I die there I shall have much greater satisfaction than to
have been obliged to France so much as I should have been, and
at last have died there. I must own I had a fairer prospect
before the fatigue of this voyage and passage of the mountains
(the Alps) in war time and between camps in too late a season,
so that Montpelier might have saved my life, and if Naples does
it after this, its air may be justly in greater esteem than ever for
people in my case. You will have heard by Bryan,1 from Turin,
of my desperate state and weak condition when there, nor had I
1 John Wheelock's nephew, who accompanied Shaftesbury to Italy.
446 Letters.
any relief till I reached Florence, where I first perceived some
help to my short breath and continued cough, as I have done yet
more since I came to this warmer air, which may make me hope
still more from the warmer and more balsamic where I am going
to settle this winter.
As good a husband as I have been (and my wife surely the
best housewife as well as wife, nurse, and friend that ever was
known in her whole sex), I have not been able to keep with the
expense proposed, but have expended at least a hundred pound a
month by Bryan's reckoning, I fear I shall be little able to
diminish it. But it will not be, I trust in God (and can surely
presume), much beyond this present compass. If I live my
family and paternal estate will not (I hope) be prejudiced by
this remittance out of it for my subsistence, and if it please God
you live too I know my affairs will prosper, and Lord Ashley
want no father at home to take care of his concerns and the
family to whose principles and public affection, as well as blood,
he will (I hope) succeed. I know your affection for that family
and for him himself, whom I saw (and since hear by every one)
is so winning and engaging a child. I am happy on his account
as well as my own in having so faithful a servant as yourself,
and whether I live or die am easy in my thoughts, having,
together with you, such good friends (though no such relations
indeed) to take care of the pledge I shall leave you. For as for
more children, should I recover this great illness, it is what I
shall hardly expect, at least none of his health and strength,
being so severely sunk in my constitution and so much lower
than even this last winter when I was at worst. . . . God
prosper you. I have not strength to write much at a time or
often. I leave the rest to Bryan. Dues as due, &c.
My wife remembers kindly to you. Give kisses from us to
Lord Ashley when you come again to him next.
TO MR. CHETWYND.
NAPLES, VI fk November, 1711.
SIR, — If I had less strength left than I have, I should
endeavour still to return you my sincere acknowledgments on
my arrival here in an air and climate the only one from whence
Letters. 447
I could hope a recovery in my almost desperate state, and where
I never could have hoped to arrive but by your kind assistance
and friendly services.
If the effect of them be so fortunate as to allow me ever to
act or live again in the world, I shall hope for many occasions
to acknowledge in a more particular manner the many favours
and civilities I received both from yourself and brother at
Genoa, whose care in providing me the litter at such a difficult
juncture was indeed so happy for me.
It is by the return of the litter-man and the voiturins you
helped me to at Turin that I take this opportunity of safely
conveying this line of thanks from a very weak hand, being,
indeed, but barely alive, and unable to lie down in my bed,
where my cough and short breathings keep me still upright, as
when I was with you, for I can keep yet in no other posture,
and by this token alone you will judge my weakness, and
excuse the imperfections of this from your obliged and faithful
humble servant.
[Address] : To Mr. Chetwynd at Turin.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
NAPLES, November 23rd, 1711.
. . . This I can only say, that from the time I came
hither (which is about a week since) I found my cough a little
abated.
I know not where this letter may find you, for by this time
I judge you may have entered on the station and in the place
which I much rejoiced to hear so advantageous to you. Should
it happily bring you into Italy, I should be highly pleased. For
should I be then alive (were it a twelve-month hence) I should
be still here. And if you come with a young nobleman or gentle
man into Italy, I take for granted it is impossible you should
escape coming to Naples. Or were your stay at Rome or
Florence only, it should go hard with me (if I were in any
travelling condition and the season good), but I would see and pass
some time with you there. Wherever you are, I hope I shall hear
constantly from you. You are my only book correspondent ; and
I am sure you will count it no fatigue to write me now and then
448 Letters.
a page or two about the matters of the literate world, which is
the only one I am concerned in, and which, whether I am sick or
well, in a living or a dying way, I am always equally glad to
hear of.
I wrote you in my first from Paris, how I found the Abbe
Bignon disposed ; how civilly he put me off, and how speciously
he complimented me so as to avoid seeing me at all, or hearing a
request he knew I had to make to him about your coming into
France to me. I was so civilly used by Mons. Torey and all the
Ministers besides, and so courted to stay in France, that I am
satisfied it could be only on this account that the Abbe Bignon
served me so ; he having shown also sufficient inclination to be civil
to me, but that by the agent I employed (as well as by former
advices) he had already smelt out my design of asking leave for
your stay or passage through France. As you well remember,
I feared the case to have stood in the same manner with Mons.
Tallard in England by the letters you saw which passed between
us, about my family and the persons that accompanied me.
Bigotry is higher than ever in France. But I must conclude
now. Your sincere and constant friend.
[Address] : A Monsieur Coste a Londres.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYT.
Having so soon quitted Paris and passed Rome (the two
only places for virtuosoship of this kind, I mean drawing and
designing for engravery) there is no hopes that I can time
enough, get a hand to execute the five draughts besides the
already executed draught you have sent me of Mr. Gribelins for
" The Moralists." This made me think whether I could reduce
the whole six (viz., one for each treatise as first resolved) to
three (viz., one for each volume), to stand in the general
title page (for so I must call it) of each particular volume,1 so
1 Shaftesbury made in Italy the final changes for the press in the
second edition of the " Characteristics," which was published in 1713
shortly after his death. In addition to the corrections much attention
was given by him to the designs of the plates that appear for the first
time in this edition.
Letters. 449
that after this manner the first of the three plates would in the
first volume stand next to the first general title-page, and in the
other two volumes they would stand the first of all in the same
place, as I remember, where stands at present the wooden cut of
a pan of coals and fire burning out, which, as I take it, is the
ornament Mr. Darby has put to the general title-page of each of
the three particular volumes.
But at present, as my weak state is, and in absence of all
artists to help me draw out the designs I had in mind for Mr.
Gribelin, I have only this expedient, and I think it will be
pretty enough. Let the wooden-cut of the pan of coals in each
of the three volumes be left out, and exactly in their place
(mutatis mutandis) let Mr. Gribelin's smaller draught stand
engraved. The bigger I confess is mighty fine. But it will be
intolerably pretending to make a whole leaf of it, or indeed to
make anything to the book beyond a mere flourish.
You will object that this device of the triumph of liberty is
peculiar only to one treatise, viz., " The Moralists." But as that
piece and that very subject (moral and political) is the hinge and
bottom of all three and of the whole work itself, it will well
become every title-page, and may well stand three times over,
having a small letter or two engraven to refer to the place as
thus : Vol. 2, p. Grib. sculp.
I have not the second volume, so cannot note the page.
I am quite spent, so adieu. Dues to all.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYT.
NAPLES, 8th December, 1711.
Your letters are of great comfort to me, speaking as they
do of all my friends, the public, and my mental as well as
personal offspring. To know one does good, though in the
remotest and lowest state, and to have the prospect of doing
still more and more, even after life, is a great pleasure to one
who stands upon the brink.
It has happened that I have just received your letters on
the days that I have been at the worst, and that I had reason to
think would be my last, and though I can promise little to you
of my recovery, I hope you will not cease writing to me with
GG
450 Letters.
the same vigour and alacrity in whatever condition you may
expect your letter shall find me. This, remember, I expect from
you as a friend, and that you write of tener than you do, for
methinks the consideration that perhaps you will not have many
more letters to write to me should make you afford me a weekly
letter (since Sir John and you hear weekly from us) whilst you
are conscious that the most agreeable employment of my last
minutes is in hearing thus from you and friends, and of what
relates to the public and our common concern in it. Many
grateful acknowledgments to worthy Mr. Collins1 for his kind
regard to both my offsprings. Has not Lord H x 2 been yet
to see his godson ? Has he despised the charge committed to
him ? Or does he count it no public one, but merely private and
selfish ? Little has he to do to praise " Car — cks,"3 or any work
of that author, if he has no honester or more generous thoughts
of his principle and sense. I expect with satisfaction the coming
of the " Bibliotheque Choisie " and pamphlets 4 by sea. You say
1 Anthony Collins. 2 Lord Halifax.
3 The " Characteristics."
4 Account of books, pamphlets, <&c., sent to the Right Honourable
the Earl of Shaftesbury by the Italian Galley, Henry Alexandre, Master.
Bentley's Horace, stitched.
States Memorial to the Queen.
„ Letter to the Queen.
Dr. Swift's Letter to the Lord
Treasurer.
Reflections on Dr. Swift's Letter.
Horatius Reformatus.
Survey of the Distressed Mother.
Two Protests of the Lords.
The Medley, No. 21.
Duke of Marlborough's Case.
Four Parts of John Bull and the
Key. Dr. Swift.
First and Second Report of the
Commission of Accounts.
The Fourth Part of the Defence
of the Allies.
The Windsor Prophecy. Dr.
Swift.
Preamble to Baron Masham's
Patent.
The Commons Representation.
Votes of the 10th June.
Gazette of the 16th February.
Speeches, addresses, Spectators,
and Examiners.
Bishop Fleetwood, Four Sermons.
Two prints of a large Mosaic pavement lately found in Oxford
shire, one of them in its proper colours.
Six fine prints, lately done by Mr. Gribelin.
Cole's Dictionary.
Argill's new project, dedicated neither to ye Queen, nor to ye
Letters. 451
not by what ship, and speak as if they were to be sent to
Florence from Leghorn, which if so (since there can be hardly
hand-carriage from Florence hither) they must go back from
Florence to Leghorn again. If W k1 has forgot to leave
the books and things I left \vith him to be sent after me by the
first sea-carriage, I shall be sadly disappointed. Pray remind
him of it.
My two first volumes of " Car — cks " noted and marked by
me (the duplicates of the set left in your hands), was to be part
of this cargo. I only brought the last volume, viz., the Mis s,2
in my trunk with me. I would gladly revise all before I die
and send you my last corrections before the second edition is
begun. In this last volume, which I have with me, I have
made many more small corrections (none such as to break the
pages), and though I should make few or none to the two former
volumes which were written and corrected so much at leisure,
yet I have corrected so much in this last that I must lay down
my scruple against its being said " the second edition corrected."
And, therefore, as soon as you have read this be pleased to turn
to the instructions written on the blank leaves at the latter end
of your copy (after the Index), and scratch out from the first line
(viz., " In a second edition if there ever" &c.) to the paragraph
" // / go to the expense" &c. For it must now necessarily be said
" the second edition corrected." And the corrections shall in a few
posts more be sent to you when Mr. C e has copied them
from my shaking bad hand. Your zeal about the plates or cuts
proposed has so encouraged me that if I had the strength I
would attempt something further. I mean one, at least, for each
volume, according to what I wrote you the 24th of last, which
Lord T r, nor to ye H s of P — r — t, but to ye Unbelieving
Club at the Grecian.
Two sets of " Characteristics," one of them complete with the
corrections exactly made by my clerk from the originals in my hand ;
the other set consists of several odd volumes, sent up by Mr. Wheelock
from St. Giles's.
A silver watch of a middling size, the whole nicely adjusted or
made by Delarder, who is now very famous — price with the chain £12.
1 John Wheelock, Steward at St. Giles's.
2 Miscellaneous Reflections.
452 Letters.
letter, lest it should miscarry, I will make Mr. C e l write you
a copy of, as he shall of part of this by next post, or in a post
or two, &c.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, the 1 5th December, 1711.
Sm, — As unfit as I am to hold a pen, I can hardly forbear
the attempt of writing with my own hand to a friend who is so
good as not only to excuse but forbid my doing it. I have
indeed been unable of late to write, and have been forced to take
that liberty with my friends in England which you so kindly
offer me, of using another hand instead of my own. I now
therefore comply with your commands and treat you as I do the
nearest friend. I can yet say little promising of my health or
recovery.
The late public news from England has been very disagree
able.* The article which Mr. Eckersall has copied out of the
Ley den Gazette looks very dismal; but I hope still there are
further mysteries beyond this, and that a certain manager,
though he has dark ways, is not preparing us for a real black
deed. French Ministers may be served perhaps in their own
kind, and overtures made with as great sincerity to them as
theirs formerly to us. France, perhaps, at last may be the dupe,
and the allies, as well as the people of England, more spirited for
the war, after the terror of such a peace in prospect. He who
plays alike on both our home parties must try by some bold
experiment how high each will bid towards the vastly growing
expense. And if he can raise the luke-warm party to act
through emulation or aim at popularity, he is sure of the
concurrent zeal and warmth of another party which is now
undermost, and which by this means he may still keep so, or at
least in equal balance with that which he now chiefly espouses.
Private piques among the great may be a further cause of these
embroils ; yet I cannot but believe the case to be as I formerly
told, and as I now write you ; and that in the issue (when some
1 Mr. Crelle, his secretary.
* Emperor's Envoy Count Gallus sent away.
Letters. 453
matters have been canvassed and well debated), even this
Parliament1 will be vigorous in their votes against France, and
chase away the spectre of a rumoured peace. — I am, dear sir,
your obliged and faithful humble servant.
[Adress] : To John Molesworth, at Florence.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, 29th December, 1711.
Though I am unable yet to write to you with my own hand,
you will be glad (I know) after the desperate condition I have
been lately in to find that I am able to dictate to Br — n's2 or
Mr. C — 1's,3 whose hands I must be forced to use. The hopes I
have of getting up once more to see another summer is from
the inexpressible mildness of the winter where I now am, and
the conveniences which at last I am come to have about me,
particularly as to my medicines, those excepted which my wife
wrote to you for. An honest, plain physician whom the Viceroy
sends constantly to see me procures me this and other necessaries
in my case, and really helps me by his advice, visiting me
constantly and without taking any fee, as so commanded by the
Viceroy, with whom he is a domestic. I wrote you that Count
Gallas's recommendations came lately to the Viceroy. What I
procured from Count Wratislau was by my own boldness and
assurance in accosting him as I did at Milan. He was surprised
to hear of me there. It was on the very day that the whole city
was in an uproar, and drawn out in their streets to receive the
Emperor ; the Count (as first Minister) holding his Court in
his great palace, laid up with the gout, with his Princes and
grandees attending him. Late at night I sent him my message,
which he received so well that being wrapped up in my night
gown, just as I came out of my litter, I was carried in men's
arms through his anti-chambers and great company and set close
to him, where I had my audience and a very friendly reception.
1 Parliament met on December 7th, 1711, with a reorganised and
strengthened Tory Ministry.
2 Bryan Wheelock. s Mr. Crell.
454 Letters.
Your letters procured to Mr. Chetwynd came just at my
leaving Turin. Those to Mr. Molesworth to Leghorn and to the
Consuls here came also in good time. But what I would entreat
and most earnestly enjoin you is (as I got my wife to write last
post to sister Nanny) that you would again, as soon as possible,
procure from the same great persons their word of thanks in
return to the Viceroy and Count Wratislau for their favours to
me. This is an owning of me, and will double the strength and
lastingness of the recommendations. And if a new Viceroy is
talked of, you must (as you have any regard for my well-doing)
be early active in laying out for fresh recommendations directly,
or by the same or other German or Austrian hands. My kind
thanks, too, and compliments to Mr. Hill, &c.
Your letters which I received last post (too late to answer)
were dated October 18th, October 20th, November 2nd, and
November 9th. Your great packet of the 26th of October,
about Lord Ashley's change of nurses (and for which you talk
of having paid four shillings), came a great deal sooner than
some of these which you wrote long before it. This I mention
that you may yourself learn and make me understand how
tliis matter is. But if you will do nothing as a man of business,
nor regard dates, nor file, nor number letters, nor keep memo
randums, nor know or correspond with the merchants or parties
(such as Mr. Furly, Mr. Molesworth, &c., by whom your letters
are conveyed), it is in vain to think of a correspondence, and
all your letters will come thus confusedly, dilatorily, and many
lost. I doubt not but my cousin Mick, as a man of business, is
more observant ; and I am willing the oftener to do as at
present, and write to you in his rather than to him in yours.
I must reserve some of my strength for him, so bid adieu.
Pray continue your ridings. Use spectacles by all means,
such as magnify the least : the clearest glass. Never fail to
bathe your eyes a little after meals. Good fair water sufficient.
If too cold in the mornings or at other seasons, mix a drop or
two of brandy. This is my plain method, and best advice which
you ask. Vervine water I found excellent. Garlick, onions,
and many such hot things, even tea, coffee, and hot liquors,
often very pernicious. So is looking at the fire and writing
much by candle-light. My wife and I return kind thanks for
Letters. 455
your repeated particulars concerning the dear little one. And
I myself in particular return you thanks for your agreeable
accounts about the spiritual child, as you call it, which pray
remember to entertain me with sometimes, whenever you pick
up anything or hear remarks. Adieu. Adieu.
P.S. — For what relates to my sorry state of health I must
refer you to my wife's — this post to her sister.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAITE.
NAPLES, 29th December, 1711.
DEAK COUSIN, — I begin with you where I ended with
Sir John, about the method and regularity of correspondence,
which I know you are so kind as to observe. Accordingly,
on my part, I begin by telling you that having by my last
of the 8th instant answered yours of the 23rd of October
your style (which was the first I received here at Naples),
I have since received your following one of the 9th of November.
Whether those letters which are enclosed to Ben Furly, and
sent directly to Mr. Fleetwood, the consul here, or those which
go to Florence to Mr. Molesworth, have the best or quickest
conveyance hither I cannot yet resolve you, but desire you
would consider. And I shall for the future inform you of
the days I receive your several letters here. Your first, viz.,
of the 23rd of October your style, I received this December
the 7th of our style here; and your next and latest, viz., of
November the 9th, I received this same December 22nd.
In my last I promised you a copy (for fear of miscarriage)
of my preceding letter of the 24th of November, in which
I in particular answered yours of September the 18th, which
brought me the draughts of Mr. Gribelin's, and which I received
enclosed from Mr. Molesworth on the road from Florence,
October 28th, N.S. I need not now do this, since I have
determined to do all thoroughly or nothing beyond what is
already done or drawn by Mr. Gribelin; so that till I can
write again to you and have proved the skill and hand of
some designers or draughtsmen that may be found here in
this city, I would have Mr. Gribelin attempt nothing. This
456 Letters.
general scheme only and the following fundamental points
of instruction I would have you foreknow and consider
together with him, and (separately) with Mr. D — y,1 that
I may have their and your answer the soonest possible.
In the first place, on no account let anything be changed
in the present device and frontispiece, not only because (as you
well observe) it confounds the hieroglyphic, where indeed there
is not nor should be the least patch or straw's breadth of work
insignificant or idle ; but because the round figure has already
passed in the world, and will better suit by its variety with
the squares and oblongs, which are to follow if I proceed in my
work.
And in this case my resolution is (as I hinted to you
before) to have three several plates of the same relievo marble
or lapidary sort, as that which Mr. Closterman drew for me;
and Mr. Gribelin has copied and lessened into the true sizes, the
least of which must positively be our size for the reasons which
I wrote you before. The two borders which Mr. Gribelin has
added to the top and the other to the bottom of this little
size is excellently invented, and I will make good improvement
of it. For whereas these borders of Mr. Gribelin's are at
present mere grotesque, and carry no fable or moral with them,
the same kind of flourishing and grotesque bordering (distinct
from the lapidary kind) shall be still preserved, but withal a
real moral device substituted to support the sense of what is
in the middle. Were it not for this intended change Mr.
Gribelin might go on presently to engrave the little size of
this device, which (as I wrote you) might well enough serve for
the title-page of each of the three separate volumes : notwith
standing that its direct reference is to that single treatise, the
Moralists, p. 252 ; but as I resolve, if able to make complete
work of it, you must hold your hand till you can hear further
of me. In the meanwhile will tell you full out what I design.
The six treatises being parted into three volumes, have
accordingly a different genius and spirit each of them. And
the pieces joined in one volume are so far of the same genius
(as particularly the two first treatises of volume first), that
1 Mr. Darby, the printer of the Characteristics.
Letters. 457
different devices can very hardly with any justness be given
to them. So that to the title-page of each of the three volumes
I design only a separate plate of what I call the lapidary kind,
with the additional border at top and bottom, as I have described
before. And thus the main device both of the first and third
volume will nearly resemble or match the triumph device,
already lessened and bordered by Mr. Gribelin, which (after the
small alteration of the borders) must stand as the main device in
the title page of volume second, and serve (as it justly may) at
once for the Inquiry as well as Moralists, both of which come
under the title page of volume second, there being nothing in
this volume but what is purely moral, or relating to that moral
or civil liberty of which the draft expresses the triumph. The
spirit of the first volume is far from this gravity or order, and
the third volume still more after the comic or satiric way.
Accordingly I design the cover (over and above the three main
plates for the three title pages) to have six flourishes, viz., one
for each of the six treatises, to stand at the top of the first page
of the actual print and text, where the wooden flowers or leaf
work is at present ; but then the very same small plate which
serves for the first treatise of volume first must serve again for
the second and third treatise of the same volume. And so the
small plate which serves for the flourish of the first treatise of
volume second must serve again in the same manner for the
second treatise of the same volume. The third volume (as you
know) has but one treatise, and accordingly will have but one
and the same small plate only once stamped. Now these three
small plates (which by repetition in the two first volumes will
make in all six printings) are to be of the same grotesque kind,
moralised or humoured after the same manner as the intended
borders of the lapidary plates of the three title pages.
Thus you have the idea of my design, which you may
make Mr. Gribelin and Mr. D — y (separately) comprehend.
The ornaments will thus be proportionately distributed through
the work. The designs will suit the author's purpose, and the
workmanship will be as if wholly contrived for ornament,
and modelled for the advantage and purpose of the engraver
and bookseller in setting off their work. There will be nothing
affected or pretending in another kind, and as I wrote you,
458 Letters.
taking it altogether with the first device already current in
the frontispiece, it will have the air only of flourish and
embellishment. I shall be at a sad loss if Wheelock's parcel,
where are my two first volumes of corrected Characteristics
(the duplicates of those I left in your hand), should not come
with the first parcel of books which you send me by Mr. Bahl's
conveyance to Leghorn, but without naming the ship. If this
omission has been, I hope it will be repaired, and the books
sent me by the next ship-conveyance.
This long letter I have dictated by fits for four several
days as my weak condition would permit. The weather, which
till this day or two has been perfect June and July English,
has since become sharp as our early May season, with the
north-east winds. I have been near relapsing by it, but can
just hold up, and as it lasts (they all assure me) but for five
or six days of the whole winter, I may hope yet to live over a
summer, and shall go on now every day in this amusement you
have given me and in the correction of Cliar ks, the only
work I am fitted for, and perhaps best fitted in a languishing
state. For having never had time to cool since the writing
of Mis s (struck out you know and finished at a heat),
I have now enough to quell the floridness and warmth of
fancy, and can be myself a squeamish critic over myself, so
that I hope to make this last sally to be at least as polite
and chaste in style as any preceding.
It would be well if you made one of your trusty clerks
copy out all this that I now send, or shall after this, in relation
to the plates and second edition, that Mr. Gribelin and Mr. D — y
may separately and severally read and comprehend the design,
to prevent all mistakes or misunderstandings between us. You
may add this memorandum to your copy of what is for their
reading out of this letter. . . .
I defer writing to Mr. Coste till I am able to use my own
hand. Many thanks to him (I beg you) for his last, with the
account of the Bibliotheque Choisie. And I again and again
return him thanks for the criticism of his ingenious friend
(whom he does not name) on page 235 of the Miscellanies
relating to the Turks, on whom, perhaps, I bear too hard;
but I have softened the passage accordingly to the very idea
Letters. 459
of the worthy critic, and by change of a few words have
corrected (I am persuaded) to full satisfaction. I have just
strength and time remaining to bid you (in my own hand) a
kind adieu.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
NAPLES, \Wi January, 1712.
I thought to have had the patience by delay answering
yours of November the 10th, from London, till I had been
able to do it wholly with my own hand, but as I have not
been able yet to do as much to any friend, I chose rather to
write as I have done to others by an assistant hand without
waiting to hear from you in return to mine of the 23rd of
November from this place.
The last return of my asthma-fits, with a high fever, soon
after my arrival here, and rest after my fatigue of travelling,
has brought me so low that I can neither use my legs (which
have been much swelled) nor apply to writing without faint-
ness and pain of my eyes, which have very much suffered.
I need not say how agreeable your letter has been, first
for its friendliness, abundantly expressed in a few lines, and
in the next place for the length of it in what follows after,
which is obliging and friendly in the next degree.
It must sound oddly (I know) to thank a friend at once
for writing short and long, but I really think that between
sound acquaintance and friends declarations of friendship can
seldom be too short, nor the trifles or little circumstances that
belong to it ever be too full or long. The less thought they
are written with the better. I am careful sometimes in writing
to a stranger, but I make it my vanity to be exceedingly
negligent to a friend, and should be sorry to write or dictate
otherwise than at random.
But what I must in a very particular manner thank you for
is the concern you have shown for the interest and improvement
of the Ch cs, in the overseeing of the proposed translation of
Monsieur Le Cl — 's extract,1 and above all for procuring me the
1 Le Clerc made an Extract of the Characteristics for circulation.
460 Letters.
criticism (whether your own or friend's) on page 235 of Vol. III.
The lower my state of health is, and the more remote I am from
doing service or acting in the world, the more I am entertained
and obliged by anything of this nature. And as you tell me
there is like soon to be occasion for a new edition, I beg you
would soon communicate to me whatever occurs in the way of
criticism, whether from enemy or friend. Nothing could be
more just than this which you have already imparted to me.
The author has laid overweight upon the Turkish clergy, and
indeed upon the Turks themselves, in their mere religious
capacity. For it is more in their military capacity, and kind
of Scythian policy (common almost to all barbarous warlike
nations), that they are jealous of letters and enemies to arts and
sciences, as introducing a contrary administration in govern
ment, and different manner from their own. That in this
respect they are sufficiently averse to real learning and the
polite arts (particularly all painting, sculpture, &c., even on a
religious account) I need not justify to you, nor that their
priests are their encouragers in this, and in their total neglect of
all Greek and Latin literature, as well as of all other language
besides their own. The passage itself I have corrected thus :
" But so barbarous," &c.
I was mightily delighted to hear by yours that your friend
Monsieur Le Motte had so favourable an idea of the treatises
from Monsieur Le Clerc's extract. You did a particular kind
ness in taking from Mr. Micklethwayte a copy for Mr. Leibnitz,
of whose judgment I shall be glad to hear.
Your visit to Lord Ashley, you may be sure, was a great
pleasure to me to hear of, especially as you were accompanied
by Mr. Collins.1 I have heard no commendations nor received
any friendly congratulations that have made me feel a fatherly
joy so sensibly as those which have come with such good omens
and prognostics from Mr. Collins. I return him, in my own and
Lord Ashley's name, many kind acknowledgments, and have no
better wish for Lord Ashley than that he may hereafter gain
him for a friend, and imitate his virtue, worth, and public
spirit, &c.
1 Anthony Collins.
Letters. 461
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, 19tk January, 1712.
SIR, — I often think it a considerable compensation in my
present lot or fortune in the world, that during the time I had
strength and health to act in it I was so happy as to gain those
for friends whom I most wished to make such, and whose
friendship in reality I could never have so thoroughly expe
rienced as since my loss of health and banishment from affairs ;
notwithstanding which I have found them equally concerned
for me, and constant in their kindness. Mr. Molesworth, your
father, is one of those whom I have had the happiness to
count upon, and prove as one of this small but precious number.
So that the right I had to your friendship was a kind of
hereditary one. But you have kindly found out a way to
make it original by many acts of friendship, and particularly
at this present, turning so much to my advantage the remem
brance of a few hours' conversation, and of a few lines which I
wrote you since upon the same subject of our public affairs.
It is indeed with the most obliging favour and friendship
that you thus congratulate with me on the better prospect of
things in England, making me at the same time of necessity
to call to mind my own views, which, however odd or wide
of the general sentiment, I was ready to hazard and expose to
such a friend as yourself.
I am sorry I received no letters this post from England.
I should with joy have dwelt upon the circumstances of this
first shock a certain party has met with from the true English
spirit, which, having often made war, but having never before
been advised with or entrusted with a peace, has given occasion
to that remarkable censure of historians : " That what advan
tages we English gained by our bravery in war were lost
for us by the negotiations of our Ministers on a peace." But
since our next is like to be a Parliamentary peace, I hope, by
the still continued blessing of Providence on our army and
the constant firmness and resolution of Parliament, to preserve
the Spanish entire to the House of Austria.1 We shall see
1 For this purpose war had long been waged.
462 Letters.
in the end a peace worthy such a Queen as ours, who so far
consults her people ; and worthy of that great name which
may perhaps be given it of the first Parliamentary treaty and
confederate establishment of the liberties of Europe. Let the
enemies of liberty endeavour afterwards as artfully as they
can to supplant that generous principle in particular nations
which Europe in general, and even the absolute princes them
selves, are forced to recognise and joyfully embrace under the
glorious title of the common cause. Surely it can have no
small influence upon men, whether under tyrannies or free
governments, to see this necessary confession of the common
right of mankind, and find that even the great, who deny this
right to those who are under their government, are glad,
however, to see such an establishment and constitution in
Europe itself as may preserve them and their equals in a firm
and established free state.
A particular thing which will very much surprise you is
that a certain peer whom Mr. Eckerfalls' correspondent will
name to him in the cover of this, came zealously into the vote,
which was carried only by six in that House, for it was there
and not in the House of Commons (as you supposed) that the
majority was of that number, there having been a far greater
afterwards, but in the contrariwise, in the House of Commons.
This I learned luckily by this post (when all my letters from
England failed me) from a letter I received directly from
Holland of the 25th of last, and of this also Mr. Eckersalls'
correspondent will send him the copy, as well as of a pleasant
passage out of one of my own English letters, which I received
from you the post before, &c.
[Address :] To Mr. Molesworth, at Florence.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, 19th January, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — I begin my letter to you, inditing (which
is the best I am able to do) without waiting the coming in of
the post lest it should go out again before I receive my letters,
as it did this last week when I received Sir John's of November
the 30th, and your last of November 23rd, for which I could not
Letters. 463
return you thanks till now. Sir John, however, will have heard
of me last post by my wife's letter to her sister, to whom she
writes again this post. My last, which was of the 29th of last
month, was jointly to Sir John and you, and I now send you a
copy of what I then wrote relating to PJiilol1, Mr. Grib — n and
Mr. D — y having left out what I would have you strike out with
your pen in those instructions. For whereas I was not then
resolved on any more than a single plate of the little flourish
kind for the treatises in each volume (repeating the same
stamp in the first and second volume, where there are more
treatises than one), I have now determined not to stick at so
small a matter, but employ my invention for three more of the
little sort (that is to say, six little ones in all), since the great
trouble and work, as well for me as Mr. Grib — n, will be the
three main lapidary plates, as I have termed them, which
belong to each separate volume. This your continued encourag
ing accounts with the relating of Philol's great success and
your own pressing solicitations have produced. You may be
sure our friend's letter from Spain, and his manner of taking the
thing, has not a little contributed to raise me on this occasion ;
and I hope for his sake, your own, and mine, you will find
means handsomely to let him know so in a line or two, with
your knowledge of my concern for him. And well I may say
your knowledge. For upon this article you know and can say
enough. Let your brother also know how much I love him for
his zeal shown for his great master,2 who will be still far greater
hereafter for being depressed now. Besides that this will save
him perhaps from the same fate which his two brothers by their
over-bravery, or by the envy of foreign generals, have met.
Should I live I might hope to see him rise out of his retirement
with nobler thoughts and higher estimation of his own time and
health than to lavish both after the way of our Whig-grandees.
If he pursues such studies as these, and can break out of a
certain track of life, he will be in no danger from the fashion
able companionships, long suppers, and sittings-up which make
1 The Characteristics.
2 General Stanhope, captured by the Spanish at Brihuega, 9th
December, 1710.
464 Letters.
English Parliament campaigns to be as dangerous to him as his
courage can make either those of Spain or Flanders.
But to my Philol again. — I had sent you word some
thing positive this post with relation to my draughtsman here
(whom I was beginning to employ), but that he fell ill the day
after I had him here with me, and was myself well enough to
instruct him in one of the designs which he has just begun.
I shall see by one day's work whether he is able to go through.
If not, I know not what to do in the case, being at such a
distance from Rome, and not like to find a tolerable hand in
this place, there being but one good artist, and he superannuated.
Arts (as well as husbandry and manufactures, both in this
country and in France) decline lamentably. At Rome, Florence,
&c., no encouragement nor youth coming up, the Pope himself
quitting his virtuoso-genius since he is grown into the cares of
a politician. But, whether plates or no plates, my great concern
is for the correctness of this second edition. For this you know
I wholly rely on yourself, and I expect in a solemn manner
your discharge of this guardianship and (I may say) public
trust, as you have any regard for whatever belongs to me, or
any desire to make return for any services or good I have done
mankind, my country, or yourself in particular, since I have
called myself your friend. You know what a wretch D — y1 is
with whom you will have to do. You know his niggardliness
and artifices notwithstanding all the generosity and frankness
I have shown towards him. He will be sure to pinch in every
thing, ink, paper, character, whenever he can save, and never
come up to a full price for anything, to have it excellent,
notwithstanding his real interest at long run, and what he
has already gained. You must begin with him betimes. He
must be close stuck to and plied. You understand how to
deal with such slippery gentlemen. This will make the edition
worthy of my correction and great accuracy (as you will find),
as well as of my study and Mr. Grib — n's art, and the whole
expense and trouble of the plates, which are to come gratis
to this niggard and insensible wretch, both in gratitude and his
own true interest. I mightily want my two first volumes, which
1 Darby, printer of the Characteristics.
Letters. 465
were left with Wheelock, to come with the first things sent
after me by sea. I am undone if Sir John and you act not so
far in concert with him about my necessary affairs and corre
spondency as to have let him know of the Read galley, the
ship which in your last you tell me Sir John's and your things
are sent. For if the two volumes mentioned come not by this
first conveyance, it may be long ere I send you the corrections,
which will be few (I daresay) in these two first ; but the
business is, I want these for the sake of the last volume, which
I cannot well finish (though I have it here with me) unless I
have the other two together with it. When I send you the
corrections I will send you here and there my note or remark
upon them as the reason why I make them, and what the nicety
is, for they will be very small and not many. This may make
your labour pleasanter, and help you perhaps in the improve
ment of your style, which in the station you are, and upon the
foot you now stand in the world, may be of no small advantage
to you, the age running so much into the politeness of this
sort.
I am sorry your second thoughts have hindered your
sending some pamphlets as part of the cargo. I must beg you to
let me have a few of those of both sides which have sold the most.
I care not which are the better or the worse written, or how ill or
mere Grub Street, or of which party they may be, 'tis what the
public has swallowed that I want to see, be it ever so indifferent:
as either an Examiner, a Medley, or an Observator; whatever
has been much read or bought up, though past and old. And a
few of these papers impartially picked from one side as well as
the other can be of no ill consequence or trouble for you to
choose and send. My old acquaintance Dr. Davenant's1 new
work, be it ever so extraordinary in either way, I must needs
have to peruse. So pray remember it with the rest and set it
down in your Table-Book. For if I live in the world and can be
of no use amongst you I must know what passes, especially in this
literate kind.
1 Charles Davenant (1656 — 1714) was a political economist. He
published "A report on the public accounts of the kingdom" in
1710-12.
HH
466 Letters.
I wrote to Mr. Coste last post directed (as he desired) to his
friend in Holland, because of the likelihood of his being there
with his new charge, my ancient friend Sir Hardy Hobard's son.
I sent him the correction of that passage which he or his friend
very kindly and justly criticised. I hope, if he was still in
England with you, you joined together in putting it down
exactly as it ought to be in the copy left in your hands for Mr.
D-y.
I must conclude with desiring you to send me punctually
whatever criticisms, friendly or hostile, scurrilous or genteel,
are made either by word of mouth or writing, either in verse or
in prose, on Char ks.
For my health I refer you to my wife's this post to Sir
John. I live indeed, but can hardly say I breathe or move.
What would become of me at this time in any other place you
may judge, when I have much ado to hold up even in this
delicious climate and rnild wintering; and stir not yet from
my bedside and chair, near a fire, which no one besides has
need of in this warm suburb of the soft, healing, cherishing,
enhaxiting siren, Parthenope. — I am, &c.
TO THE REVEREND DOCTOR FAGAN, AT ROME.
NAPLES, the 23rd of January, 1711-12.
SIR, — Though I can truly say that the kind services and
civilities I received from you in the short stay I made at Rome
have ever since run in my mind, with the constant resolution
of returning you my hearty thanks and acknowledgments, it
has been (as you may imagine) no small discouragement to me
to think that, though I could write a line, I had still but little
prospect of my recovery so as to have the hopes of seeing you
any more. That I have now lately risen so far out of my weak
state as to flatter myself I may, after enduring this winter in
so healing and mild an air as this, be able ere long to pass some
months with you at Rome.
It would be a great pleasure to me to renew those agreeable
conversations I had with you. I am persuaded that in most
acquaintances there is from the first beginning a kind of sense
Letters. 467
by which it may easily be foreknown how agreeable or lasting
they are like to prove. And if I do not extremely flatter myself,
I can with some assurance believe that I had the happiness to
share that sympathy with you which naturally makes the
prospect of a correspondence very pleasing. I must confess
that our present times are such as render that which is
commonly called news too nice a subject for a correspondence
by letter, so I neither ask you what news, nor pretend to send
you any except what may relate to letters, sciences, or arts.
And how much these are declining in this place you may judge
by this very instance, that now, since the late wars and revolu
tions, some of the chief university schools and conveniences of
the students are turned into stables and quarters for the soldiers.
The academies for painting are in a proportionable state.
And I have little hopes of finding a young painter to employ
(as I told you I had thoughts) in copying the great masters
and drawing things of history, statuary, and the Roman and
other antiquities, which would be the most agreeable entertain
ment to me at present. If you hear of any ingenious artist of
this sort, pray be so kind as to write me word. If such a one
had a mind to travel as far as Naples, I would willingly bear his
charges and keep him with me in my own house a month or two
on trial, with whatever reward he could well desire for whatever
work I should employ him in. And were he but a sober, civil
person, it would be the same to me whatever country or religious
persuasion he were of ; or though even a Frenchman, provided
he had come early thence, and been some considerable time in
Italy.
If the enquiry into such an affair as this be the least
troublesome to you, or out of the way of your conversation, I
would not by any means engage you in it ; and shall only desire
(when I have the happiness to hear from you) to know for what
price one may purchase the prints of Trajan's or Antoninus's
Pillar, either separate or both together, or what good book of
prints there has come out of late years (since Pietro de Bellory's
time) relating to the ancient statues, medals, or basso relievo of
the ancients.
I have written you methinks a long letter, as if I resolved
at any rate to cut out work enough for correspondence.
468 Letters.
I beg pardon that, being still weak as I am, I have been
forced to use a secretary's hand.
I now add only with my own that I am, &c.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the 16th February, 1712.
. . . For my employments and studies, since books are
in a manner wholly denied me, I am now (as I have written you
word) wholly amused in virtuosoship ; and since life would grow
very heavy upon my hands, if I did not think I could be still
some way profitable to my friends and mankind, I flatter
myself that I shall be able so to order it as to make even these
lighter studies of some weight and consequence as well as
pleasure and entertainment. Especially since you over again
so thoroughly confirm what my cousin Mick has written me so
often and sanguinely on the prosperity of my first-born. My
wife (who sends you a thousand thanks for your kind accounts
of my younger one) wrote you word in her sister's, how I was
now taken up and diverted by antiquities, medals, and chiefly
drawings, and pictures brought to me every day to see, my
acquaintance in these matters beginning now to enlarge, and
my discoveries proving more successful. Meanwhile never was
such a deadness as to all arts in Italy ; and many families
sinking here under poverty make pictures a sad drug, though
the modern painters are high enough paid for what they do
in church for the priests. For of the increase and adorning of
churches and monasteries there is no end. My own designs,
you know, run all on moral emblems and what relates to
Ancient Roman and Greek History, Philosophy, and Virtue.
Of this the modern painters have but little taste. If anything
be stirred or any studies turned this way, it must be I that must
set the wheel agoing, and help to raise the spirit.
Pray tell my cousin Mick that I have at last resolved
to take his advice, and have sent for a young painter from
Rome to be with me here in my house, and, besides this charge, I
have actually bespoke a piece of history (after my own fashion
and design) of an eminent master in this place, and who is
Letters. 469
the best now in Italy. I could not without this have made
any considerable figure among the virtuosos, especially being
confined at home and infirm as I am. But I have now at
command both music and painting of the finest and gravest
sort, in which it is a great pleasure to me that my wife has
such a good relish. My great piece will be of about fourscore
pistoles' charge to me. The first draughts and sketches are
made all in my own chamber, where this famous master often
works and sometimes eats with me ; so you see I am like to be
dipped sufficiently in expense in these affairs, besides the plates
and engravings for Philol, which will be over and above,
and of which I am to write to my cousin Mick very largely in
a post or two, if I continue well, and hear from him that he is
still zealous in the affairs ; otherwise, if after he has heated me
he should grow cool himself, I should have a bad time of it
For your part you are (as I wrote you in my last) in a likeli
hood of being a good gainer by these studies and charges of
mine here in Italy at this nick of time. For if a sudden peace
comes not, I shall be able to lay out your two hundred pounds
to so much advantage in some pieces of the best hands that you
may wish perhaps your commission had been for as much again.
For my own part, as I dedicate my studies and expenses to the
promotion of science and virtue merely, I shall never purchase
one piece for myself as an ornament or piece of furniture, though
I could even have a Raphael or a Guido for a single pistole.
My charges turn wholly, as you see, towards the raising of art
and the improvement of virtue in the living and in posterity to
come. So that whatever I meet with of the deceased masters,
or pictures already painted, be they ever so cheap, or the
occasion ever so favourable, will be either for you or for
nobody. For I shall hardly turn factor for any one besides.
And as a hundred pound or two will go but a little way
in the great pieces of humanity or history of the Carachs,
the Guidos, and such great masters as those ; the next
degree of painting (which is that of nature in perspective
or landskip) will be that which best suits you, and which, I
think, you have the most taken to of late. For, as I remember,
you have, besides the copies of Poussin, a copy of Salvator Rosa,
also by Mr. Closterman, which you told me you could not bring
470 Letters.
to Reigate, because of its bigness. Now I could at this instant,
for little more than double what you paid for such poor 'prentice-
copying, procure an original piece or two of the same Salvator
Rosa (a townsman of this very place), equal and even beyond
those very fine originals which Mr. Closterman, by the help of
his journeymen, took copies of, and sold to you. I believe that
before I can hear in answer to this I shall have secured at least
one such piece for you. I shall earnestly desire to send them
over immediately to you, to hear of your liking and the
virtuosos' judgment of them. You may insure them or not,
as you fancy, when I let you know of the ship by which I shall
send them, or any other I may light upon. If you would have
the price a secret you must return your bill by way of advance
to myself directly, and entrust me as your steward, otherwise,
as I entrust my stewards with every farthing of my expense
(which stands in so many particulars in their accounts), they
must necessarily be privy to your good or bad pennyworth,
however I happen to deal for you.
Here is, you see, a letter full of what I can only write
by way of entertainment in return for the many particulars
of private and family news (especially from St. Giles's, my
gardeners, and plantations) which you are so kind as to write
me of so fully, besides what you write to my wife of Lord
Ashley and to me of Philol.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
NAPLES, February 23rd, 1712.
WHEELOCK, — I am much concerned at not hearing since by
Sir John's. I hear you are gone back again to St. Giles's,
so I fear your letters and bills of credit (if any) must be
miscarried.
I am not yet well enough to write more than my good
wishes, and to tell you that not only I want to hear from you,
but that I think your nephew Bryan would be happy in
receiving more of your good advice, which I saw by chance
in one of your letters to him. This is a place and circumstance
which, both as to trade manners, languages, and many nego
tiations and affairs of my own, he may by my help extremely
Letters. 471
improve himself. But then I must tell you (as I often tell him)
that this place is withal the very seat of luxury and pleasure,
and ever had, as it has still, the power of creating dissoluteness
in all that are not severely on their guard, but especially all
youth. The very air inspires indolence and laziness, as the
richness of living and fruits of the soil do luxury and a certain
over-degree of health. Never were a more ingenious and a
more dissolute people both at once. So that when modern
times confirm what was in the ancient, a man in health and
youth may well need counsellors, since the poets made this
the very seat of the sirens and of Circe that corrupted and
transformed men. And, in truth, 'twas this very spot that
corrupted, in one winter -quartering, the best disciplined army
and severest general that was ever in the world, even Hannibal
himself.
Therefore after all this learning and philosophy I have
written you on your nephew Bryan's subject (and which I
assure I think no jest) I hope you will on a double score
remember to write to Naples, which soil and climate (as by
parity of reason you may judge) is likely, I hope, to be as
assistant to me in my state and circumstance as I have repre
sented dangerous to him, if his own sense and your good counsel
make him not very strict over himself, and industrious and
indefatigable against the siren laziness, the mistress of this
place, which from thence receives its Latin name Parthenope,
the siren.
I hear my sister Hooper and her children have escaped
through the dangerous distemper of the measles, so dangerous
to children, and soon followed by the small-pox, which I pray
God were as safe over with them, and with Lord Ashley, of
whom I hear hopefully from all hands.
As low as my state is (for I am yet too weak to stir out
of my chamber), I hope to make even my slighter studies
not only entertaining to my friends, but of advantage to the
public, and to improvement of ingenuity and liberty. My
hundred a year pocket money, which I allow myself, will
wholly turn this way. I have no other expense, and have a
wife who is frugal and managing within doors beyond all
example, and indeed to a miracle. If Bryan be the same
472 Letters.
without doors I am sure we shall come again soon within
compass. For we are in the cheapest of places beyond sea,
and I have no expenses but what I tell you, my wife being
not likely to spend near her own hundred pound; she is so
good a huswife; but for me and the house still more than
for herself.
God prosper you as you serve and love a family which
has been and is devoted to public good and friendship. Let
me hear of my affairs, and prospect of farm and stock for
payment of my debt. Dues to my relations and friends. My
wife sends you her kind remembrance.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYT.
NAPLES, 23rcZ February, 1712.
. . . So that as to my young draughtsman (who proved
a sorry creature) I have been forced, after a good deal of pains
and some pistoles that I bestowed, to send at last to my corre
spondents at Rome (as you see in Sir John's) about a young
painter according to your advice and desire. And the person to
whom I chiefly address being a friend of Mr. Kent's (a young
man whom I think you once named), I do not know but he
may happen to be the very person.
Until some such new draughtsman comes to me I am
wholly at a stand as to my hieroglyphics, both the lapidary and
flourish kind, which are none of them subjects for me to enter
upon with a great master, though when they are near finished
I shall be sure to join such a one's opinion and hand to my
workmanship. In the meanwhile I have a noble virtuoso
scheme before me, and design, if I get life this summer, to apply
even this great work (the history piece bespoke, and now
actually working) to the credit and reputation of Philol.
But this is not the only view of service which I ground on
this chargeable and high attempt. Our present great Minister,
or at least some future one, may possibly have some compassion
for the poor arts and virtuoso-sciences which are in a manner
buried here abroad and have never yet raised their heads in
Britain. It might be well for your joint interest and Sir John's,
as friends to one another and to me, if through your hands a
Letters. 473
present should be made of a glorious piece not only worthy of
a Prime Minister but even of the reigning Prince, or of some
Prince of the Royal Family to whom the piece itself may be a
council and instruction. Pray lay this saying up in your
memory, for I should hardly bestow my time and pains, with
about fourscore pistoles prime charge and with so many con
sequent expenses, for the sake of a piece of furniture merely for
St. Giles's or as a mere ornament to Pliilol.
I know that by what I have said I must have highly
raised your curiosity, which till next post I am unable to satisfy,
and then you shall have it all before you by the copy of a little
treatise1 (which Mr. Crell is now actually transcribing from the
foul) written, or rather dictated, on this subject of the great piece
of history in hand, and which will come within the compass of
a sheet of paper. But it being written in French for the
painter's use, you cannot have it in its right condition until it
be thought over anew and translated into its natural English.
It* will be in Mr. Coste's power to make this piece truly original
as it now is, by touching it up (as the painter's phrase is) and
converting it wholly into pure language with his masterly hand
and genius. And in this condition I could willingly consent he
should carry it or send it over to his friend to be inserted in the
very next Bib. Chois.2 of his friend's friend, Mons. Le Clerc.
Now, these scholars and great men of learning are (I know) very
little given to these virtuoso studies, yet I cannot but fancy that
if Mr. Coste gave in to it heartily he could engage them also,
and even without using authority or telling names, might
introduce the matter into the world, which afterwards might
more agreeably and by a gradual discovery come to know the
author and that of Char cks to be the same. For by the
time that this little treatise could be published a large plate after
the great piece would be finished at Rome by an excellent
engraver, a disciple with my history painter, and bred with him
at Rome under Carlo Marat. And when a dozen or two of the
large prints from this plate shall be sent over to you to be given
to friends in England and to Holland, to Mr. Coste's and my
luThe Judgment of Hercules." * From here in my own hand.
2 Bibliotheque Choisie.
474 Letters.
friends there, a little octavo-plate might be made by Mr. Gribelin
(as should afterwards be directed) for a companion of another of
the same kind and size, to be inserted in that page1 of the
Moralists, where mention is made of the ancient moral Socratic
pictures, particularly those of Prodicus and Cebes, whose names
are mentioned, though not the name of Socrates. For of that
name, you know, I am ever very tender.
But all this will depend on Mr. Coste, whether his affairs
or humour (for in this kind fancy and humour must govern,
even in the best of men) will allow him to mind such a virtuoso-
business as this. And in this case you must engage him withal
to bring with him from Holland the best edition or two (with
Notes) of Cebes' Table,2 with the ordinary ugly prints (such as
there are, of this beautiful Socratic piece, which I shall have
time to study at leisure, and fit for a companion to this other
Socratic but more simple and (in painting) more exact natural
and just piece of Prodicus, now carrying on, and upon which I
have composed my little treatise in French from what passed in
conversation with my painters, and some other virtuosos with
whom I can converse only in that language. So here at last you
have my secret out. And if Sir John should in his comical way
ask you, " Well, Mick, what do you think my Lord's a-hatching ?
I believe it is a young Milo." You may tell him yes ; and that the
egg will be sent you ready peeped (as the hen housewives say)
for you to bring forth, and help the chick into the world. I can
assure you a friend of yours said yesterday that the face and
air of the young Milo was mighty like you, and so I really
think, though it has not so much of the Adonis (you may
believe) as my young hunting gentleman in St. Giles's cedar-room.
Where to write to Mr. Coste, or how to [find] him flying, I
cannot tell, having had no news from him but by you since his
going to Cambridge, or since his positive engagement with his
young gentleman,3 who happily brings him hither (as I hope)
early this summer.
1 Characteristics, Yol. II., p. 254.
2 The Tabula Cebetis, which is often printed with the Discourses
of Epictetus.
3 John Hobart (1694 ?-1756), first Earl of Buckinghamshire.
Letters. 475
As for the main matter of all — viz., my corrections for the
next edition of Char cks, you may conclude that I have
suspended the sending them to you at present, because of the
time you have given me by telling me it will be towards
midsummer before Mr. D y can begin. However, I will
immediately despatch the corrections to you when I have
received iny two first volumes from Wheelock ; and should you
hear that the ship by which he sends these has come by any
accident, you must forthwith send me a new set of all three,
corrected exactly and carefully by the originals in your custody.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the 1st March, 1712.
. . . In the little capacity which is now left me of doing
good to my friends or mankind, you may believe that such a
letter, from such a man and such a friend as Stanhope, has
strengthened me in my purpose of living on, and doing my best
to continue this broken, imperfect, half -life, whilst I find myself
thus thought of and my labours turned to so good eflfect. But
as for any letter to myself, I have not been so happy as to
receive it. It must have been stopped in France. Perhaps the
Ministers, who may suspect us for politics, may have stopped
it to try whether no secret character or chemical ink may lie
hid, so that I may hope at last to receive it after it has under
gone its probation. However, pray fail not to write him in
your next that my success, whatever I hear of as to the rest of
the world, I esteem but as a slight matter in comparison to that
which I have had over him. You see I speak with the air of
a master. And I hope in this respect at least he will prove my
disciple ; that upon his return to his country, as much time
as he may give or as I would wish him to give to his friends
and to public conversation, he would resolve to redeem himself,
his mind, his health, and constitution, as well as his powers,
from that gulph of quality-entertainments. I mean the invita
tion-dinners and suppers of our Whig-grandees or of his fellow
generals ; without which, if he can no longer be popular, it were
better his country should want his present services, and that he
476 Letters.
should reserve himself for a time when it may want him more,
and receive greater advantage from him, without such sacrifices
on his part.
This is a string I touched once in a letter to my Cousin
Mick. But whether you or he will think fit to show such
strokes as these I know not. It is my part to speak what my
genius dictates. This word of counsel to him is my best
friendly return and mark of love.
By next post (tell my Cousin Mick) I hope to send him
his young Milo, promised in my last. He will have shown you
what I wrote about the egg I have been hatching, viz., the
picture and little treatise1 founded on this design. The picture,
you have heard, will cost me a good fourscore pistoles, and the
little treatise will cost me double trouble, having been forced to
write it originally in French for the use of my painter and
virtuosos here, and now (what is ridiculous and odd enough)
to translate it into my native language — a greater trouble
than the other. I shall send the English one, when it is done,
to yourself, and shall desire you, if you like it, to give it to the
same good friend2 to whom the Fable, of the Oaks and all
virtuoso matters of mine have been communicated. And in
reality this very device and picture, though now promoted on
Philol's account, was originally started on a conversation some
years time at a country house, near which I retired again myself
a year after, and in that few days' retirement made a visit or two
again, on you know whose account. Now on the same person's
account (were nothing of friendship or gratitude to be con
sidered) I cannot but think this gentle intercourse of friendship
(supported by you) would be of service hereafter. But you may
think my heart perhaps better than my head, and so conclude
me in an error. However, for my heart's sake, and as I love
and admire the man and still more and more, I must needs have
you communicate even my weaker labours and employments.
And should he be really entertained and delighted, and I should
find my great picture actually answer my expectation, it may
chance to go over to you, as a present to the great man, who
may perhaps find it worth a present to a greater hereafter. For
1 " The Judgment of Hercules." 2 Lord Somers.
Letters. 477
this I will boldly say : that if my design be well executed by
my workman, my fourscore pistoles will make in time the value
of a thousand and produce a picture truly fit for a present to a
Prince, especially a young one, who may hereafter govern a
great people. For my young Milo relates to better achieve
ments than those of a horseman, or a wrestler. But of this
enough. Adieu, adieu.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, 29th of March, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — Never will I promise anything hereafter,
though but for an hour beforehand, which depends upon such a
wretched health as mine. It is now a month since, and in three
several letters (viz., of the 23rd of last month to yourself, of the
first of this month to Sir John, and of the 15th again to your
self), that I have promised to send you my young Milo in
manuscript, with the letter to my old Lord (as a certain lady
calls him). But, by what my wife writes this post to Sir John,
you will see how I have been prevented. My painter too is now
fallen ill, just as the great piece was almost finished, and of
which I had very great hopes that it would have proved a very
noble picture. Meanwhile my young painter from home is
coming to me, and I shall proceed in the lapidary and little
grotesque designs. I rejoice to hear the Phoenix is come safe
to Leghorn, so that as soon as they arrive here (which is
commonly pretty tedious) I hope to send you the main concern
of all — viz., corrections1 — and depend on you for this as the
great concern of my life, that the corrections may be effectual,
and that Mr. D y performs this with entire fidelity and
accuracy, which I well know will never be without your
assiduous, watchful, strict, and high hand over him in the
whole work.
If I live to see this it will be my sufficient nunc dimittis.
However, while I live, I shall, as you see, keep my pen and style
in exercise, to exert it, if I am urged, in my own, my friends', or
country's behalf. But as to the public I bear all, confiding
1 Corrections for the second edition of the Characteristics.
478 Letters.
in that personal friend, who I hope will some time or other
bring light out of this darkness. Were it not for this I could
unfold a tale (as the ghost says in Hamlet) which would make
some ears in Britain tingle. For sick as I am, I carried eyes
with me through France and other countries where I have been ;
and I have old secrets laid up in my memory, and transactions
known to few Englishmen besides myself. But hush ! — I am
now a virtuoso, no politician. Were my noble and ancient
friend the Lord Treasurer1 a virtuoso also, or a lover or pro
moter of these arts, I should, perhaps, address myself to him
upon these matters, though not just at such a time as this when
he is so deeply employed, and sustains so great a weight both of
our affairs at home and those of Europe. A certain Lord indeed
(your patron and my friend) had, at my coming away, the offer
from me of any kind of service I could do for him in the
virtuoso or any other kind here abroad. But he answered
coldly to the offer. I have but one friend2 besides of any long
standing who is this way given, but in a higher, more bookish,
and learned way, and who from the beginning has chiefly
attracted my thoughts of this kind. The first fruits of my pen
having been for him, as perhaps the last may be, my best
thoughts in this way, as I have professed, having been raised in
me from the fancy of his agreeable genius and conversation.
To him, therefore, I should send these further amusements of
mine, immediately and directly ; but that Sir John and you, as
adopted virtuosos, must and ought to share in passing. Besides
that I think it handsome, generous, and just, that the person
himself, as an old friend, should not be forgot by either of us,
and that such a pleasant remembrance by a trifle (in which
neither business nor politics have anything to do) may be of no
small use as well as comeliness, decency, and gratitude.
So pray, dear couz, remember, and see that Sir John plays
me fair. When certain letters of mine have been suppressed,
and my natural steps supplanted, it has not proved so well, as
you and he may possibly remember. Honesty and courage are
very good ingredients in policy. And I am now at a time of
my life when, if I am not complied with in the plain ways of
1 Harley, Earl of Oxford. 3 Lord Somers.
Letters. 479
friendship and the natural compliments, which by instinct I am
led to make, I shall be apt to break out in another manner. So
pray trust to my good humour, and let things go in the pleasant
channel I design. You shall have the work and epistle by next
post, if I have but one tolerable day between this and that.
I add a word in my own hand, though not well able to tell
you of a commission which, I am sure, will be highly agreeable
to you and Sir John. If you have never heard of the great and
learned family, the library, collections, and assembly of friends
of Don Joseph Valletta, of this city, you may turn over to the
Bishop of Salisbury's1 fourth Letters of Travels, dated the 8th of
December, 1685, from Rome. It was but the day before yesterday
that these gentlemen made me a kind visit, and to-day they have
sent to desire me to transmit some small literary works to their
learned acquaintance in England, with whom their correspon
dence has been a long time interrupted. They know not that
Mr. Dodwell2 was dead, but to the Bishop of Salisbury and Sir
Isaac Newton I engaged that whatever they should send should
be well recommended and taken care of. The bookseller to
whom they address, it seems, is Mr. George Strahan, near the
'Change, and they have made use of the recommendation of one
Mr. Thompson, who was here about a year since, and whose
letter they have to Mr. Strahan. By next post I may, perhaps,
send you their letter and order to this bookseller, after whom I
would have you enquire and send me word. In the meantime,
when Sir John or yourself can have the opportunity to speak to
these gentlemen and their remembrances either to the Bishop of
Salisbury or Sir Isaac Newton (by my Lord Halifax's means if
you are not directly acquainted with Sir Isaac), I hope you will
not neglect it. You may be sure I shall be glad to receive from
you as soon as possible any word or compliment, message or
letter, from the Bishop or Sir Isaac to these learned gentlemen
and great men. I should be glad, for their sake, to engage them
in an acquaintance with our worthy friend Mr. Collins. Pray
1 Bishop Burnet's "Some Letters containing what seemed most
remarkable in Switzerland and Italy," &c., Amst., 1686.
2 Henry Dodwell, the elder (1641 — 1711), a profound scholar and
voluminous theological writer.
480 Letters.
let me know if such a correspondence would be agreeable to him.
And when you mention me to him let it be with the highest
respect and friendship, not forgetting my obligations to him for
his kind visit to the little one at Kensington.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, 29^ March, 1712.
I am indebted to you for two most obliging letters, as well
as for your particular care of my parcels from England, which
by this means I hope soon to receive here entire.
What you communicate from Spain of both your brothers'
safety after the hazard of that glorious action of Cardona, is
a sincere joy to me, and what alone could balance my share
of grief with that greatest and most deserving of men, General
Stanhope, for the loss of his late remaining brother in that
common cause, which he has served the best, and at the dearest
cost man ever did. And as mournfully as things appear in
respect of public affairs, this single life spared by Providence,
with the hope of his release1 (as from England I am written),
makes me not despond, especially whilst the spirit of our
nobility and in general that of the people seems to run so
differently from that of the present House of Commons. And
as I am willing to draw the best comfort I can out of these sad
circumstances, I cannot help suggesting to you the thought I
have of the wholesome and early experience which the noble
house of our Protestant succession is now making of a certain
party, with which unhappily all our Princes (even the very best)
have been doomed at some time or other of their lives to engage.
It was more than once our good King William's lot. And
Heaven defend her present Majesty.
Meanwhile, if the pretence of high services to a prerogative
and Crown be that which gives this party such high success in
every Prince's ear, it is worth noting what work this loyal
party are at this instant cutting out both for a Crown and
Ministry in future time : whilst the arcana imperii and the
inmost springs of State are thus treated, and brought into the
1 General Stanhope, then prisoner at Saragossa, in Spain.
Letters. 481
hands and under the immediate cognisance and debate of our
popular grand council.
Thus the gentlemen of the Tory party act the natural part
of the Whigs. God grant that when time serves again, these
latter may not do the work of the Tories. For I have known
when this has been. Though for my own part I am so con
tented with the present balance of power in our nation, and with
the authority and prerogative of the Crown, such as the Tories
have reduced it, that I can say from the bottom of my heart, I
am as an Englishman the most truly monarchical in my principle,
and having really in some measure a jealousy upon me of the
injury which may be done our common- weal by the diminution
of our monarchical power in some parts of our constitution ;
which I am absolutely convinced is the freest we are able to
bear. I well know the Tory expedient to set all right again and
restore at one blow all the loppings they have made of our
national monarchy in these two last reigns. But I hope they
will be frustrated, and that our good Queen will be awakened
ere long when she sees the Restoration coming on so fast before
her eyes, and in her own time.
You have Lady Shaftesbury's humble services, with par
ticular thanks for your enquiries after Lord Ashley, who, by
what we hear, holds the same character of health, strength, and
humour ; and receives many encomiums from his visitants, and
the company whom he meets every day in his Hyde Park airings.
You have been indeed a true prophet as to my health, from
what you observed of this unnatural cold weather. I am much
relapsed of late, confined still to my chamber, and scarce able to
breathe, having strength only sufficient, by help of another hand,
to express with what sincere respect I am your affectionate
and humble servant.
[Address :] To Mr. Molesworth, at Florence.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, 29th March, 1712.
You have here enclosed my letter long promised and (as
you see) long since written to our old Lord.1 The little treatise2
1 Lord Somers. 2 " Judgment of Hercules."
II
482 Letters.
which accompanies it (and which I hope you will deliver or
convey carefully, and handsomely sealed up with it) I have also
enclosed this post to my cousin Mick.
These are amusements I would not trouble any friend with
who was in business, so that the friends (if I have any) who are
now in affairs would have no reason to think I passed them by.
When I sent you mine to my Lord Dartmouth, I proposed a
letter of thanks and acknowledgments to my Lord Treasurer1 for
his most particular favour and friendship. And, indeed, I can't
enough acknowledge my obligation to my old friends T
and S for their constant and kind remembrance.
Mr. Slater's favour to Lord Ashley was an inexpressible
delight to me.
I am but in an ill way, so must have done, referring you to
what my wife writes this post to her sister.
TO MR. CHETWYND.
NAPLES, the 5th of April, 1712.
The spring is but newly felt; I have just got life and
breath by it ; and I now take my pen (the first time that I have
used it) to acknowledge the favour of yours received here in the
depth of winter, when I could scarce say I was alive.
We had indeed a glorious season here, both before and
after Christmas ; but towards the end of February, and after
wards in March, when we concluded the winter to be wholly
passed, we had a pull-back of at least a month, so that our
mountains (even Vesuvius itself) lay covered with snow. What
I should have done in another climate is hard to say, since this
warmest of Europe has scarce served to keep me alive. This
has quite taken from me the hopes I had of revisiting you this
summer at Turin, in order to return home the spring or summer
following. I must be contented at this distance, and on these
bad terms of an interrupted correspondence, to continue my
acknowledgments of your friendship shown me, and to cultivate
an acquaintance which was no less agreeable than it was happy
to me in the preserving of my life.
iHarley, Earl of Oxford.
Letters. 483
I can entertain you with little or nothing from such a part
of the world as this, where the little conversation I have, and the
only news of business stirring, relates to the shows and cere
monies of the place or to the studies of the virtuosi. Politics
are not of this sphere. We are glad to hear news, but can send
none. And for reflections on what passes, though I am ready
enough as an Englishman to speak my thoughts at a venture, as
they come across me, I find my circumstances, however, have
made me partake something of the Italian spirit and that of
the place where I am. In reality I think myself grown
wonderfully temperate and cool in politics, after having passed
so long a season without the least emotion of the surprising
news which post after post we have received from the Courts of
France and England ever since I had the happiness of seeing
you. But the face of affairs seems to be somewhat changed, and
(thanks to Providence) our Queen, our nation, and Europe itself
seem to be now in a safer way. The figure which Englishmen
were like to make abroad put me in rnind of those times before
the Revolution, when I travelled1 here a very young lad, but
experimentally sensible of the contempt we were then treated
with by almost all other nations. But I hope we shall, all of
us, and particularly you gentlemen in business, be able to hold a
better countenance, when it appears that we are not like to lose
for want of wit and honesty that reputation which we had got
by arms and generous councils.
In this sense I think I may congratulate with you, though,
obliged as I am to the French Court for my passage and the
civilities I received, I should unwillingly insult over them on
account of those blows which Providence alone has struck them
in the death of their Princes2 at a time when it is apparent they
thought themselves at once healed and secure of all other
wounds which had been or could be given them hereafter.
1 shall be rejoiced to hear at any time of your health and
prosperous affairs, whether you stay abroad or return home.
I must entreat you, whenever you write to our worthy friend
iln 1687.
2 The Dauphin, son of Louis XIV., died in 1711, and the Duke of
Burgundy, the Dauphin's son, in the spring of 1712.
484 Letters.
Mr. Hill, to assure him of my sincere respects and constant good
Wishes. I will beg the favour, too, that you would present my
humble service to your brother, to whom, though unknown, I
have been so much obliged. — I am, Sir, your most faithful
humble servant.
[Address :] To Mr. Chetwynd, at Turin.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYT.
NAPLES, the 12th of April, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — I have yours of the 29th of February with
advice of your receipt of mine of the 2nd of the same month,
new style. I return you many thanks for your exactness in all.
As for the affair of my life and health, you will know how much
it depends on your sudden and early thoughtf ulness and inquiry
for me since my resolution of not suffering Bryan to lose his
footing of a fortune in public office. I say no more of this,
because I know, for my wife's sake and mine, I know how
impossible it is for you 'and friends (but particularly yourself)
to be unmindful or slow in this affair.
As for my virtuoso studies, my sole employment at this
time, you may be sure they go on as fast as my weak state will
permit. Mr. French, my young painter, is come to me from
Rome, and is with me in my family. I have an engraver also
coming from Rome, but upon another foot, he being only for
the great plate (of a foot long and more) of my great piece of
Hercules, now finished. And earnestly I long (as you may well
believe) to hear of the delivery, reception, and success of my
epistle and treatise1 thereto belonging.
I have received Mr. Gribelin's print of the cartoon in your
cover, and shall be ready, I hope, in a week or fortnight to
send him his plan to begin on some of the devices. But the
corrections, which are the principal concern, must take place,
if I receive, as I hope shortly, my trunks and books from Rome,
where they are now detained.
Of other virtuoso schemes and devices you will hear some
thing by my wife's this post to her sister, so that you may see
1 " The Judgment of Hercules."
Letters. 485
I do not spare expense in this kind. What commissions Sir
John will give me I do not know ; but though I had his order
for a hundred pound or two to lay out for him, I will not lay
out a penny of his without his express desire renewed. I have
your list of pamphlets as well as of medals to come by the
Neptune galley. I just hear by old Ben of the arrival of Mr.
Cfoste], but not a single line all this while from himself. I am
mighty glad you did with a good grace and at a good season
what you write me in relation to the New Year's gift and first
year's annuity, which I had rather should be so implicitly
transacted than expressly by order from my own hand. It
has given you better scope, and you have used the liberty left
you to good purpose, as I believed you would.
The judgment you make of his character left behind him is
very just. It is in so far innocent on his side as that no one of
his nation in the same circumstance as himself would talk or
act otherwise in politics than as he has done, and does.
It is in vain for them to aim at principles. They have
none, and never can have any, in government. They may like
the Whigs at this or that particular season. But not a Tory
in England, not even an Oxford or a Christ Church College
proselyte, but in effect, and in real practice, when matters come
to an issue, and things press, would be found more true by far
to liberty and property and a national constitution than either
poor C l or the best that ever was born and bred a French
man. This I know, and can pronounce, by good experience of
mankind. And were my son on this account to take his
principles and sense of community, a constitution, and a public
from good Mr. C (which will not, nor can ever be the case),
I had rather trust him at the foot of Gamaliel, and send him
with the Hydes and Finches to our university under the tuition
of a Doctor Allderidge2 or Atterbury.3 But I return many
1 Pierre Coste, who had evidently become a recusant to Shaftes-
bury's political principles.
2 Henry Aldrich (1647-1710), Dean of Christ Church, Oxford, a
High Churchman, and the author of " Artis logicae compendium," 1691.
3 Francis Atterbury (1662-1732), Bishop of Rochester, a High
Church dignitary favourable to the Jacobite cause.
486 Letters.
thanks to Sir John and you for being so indulgent to poor Mr.
C , notwithstanding these natural infirmities and want of
manhood in this sense. You know withal his obligations to a
new great family, and the power in particular that ladies must
needs have over him, as a Frenchman, in that way of politeness
which is now esteemed the highest of the world.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, 12th April, 1712.
It is but the last post that I write to you by my wife's
hand of what you chiefly desire to know, my state of health
and remedies. I am not worse since then, though I had a bad
fit of breathing this last night, for which and the rest of this
kind I must refer you to my wife's this post to her sister. I
have not yet received, nor am like to receive, Mr. Stanhope's
letter which I count so great a loss. I am highly obliged to you
for your advices about my brain-offspring,1 though since what
you copied to me from Stanhope's letter in praise of it, I am
become dead and insensible to any other praise or commendation
of my labour in that kind. The fame of it, indeed, may be of
service and advantage to me in a narrow sense of private
interest as well as to you and couz Mick in our joint friend
ships, and particularly in his fortune so dependent on the
pleasure and humour of the great. But for any real good
which it may further do in this present age, or at least in my
time, I am very much a doubter. Nor do I hope to hear it
ever said again from such another honest heart as Stanhope's
that one might grow the better (I mean the better and honester
man) for reading it.
The sad account of our killing Prince Eugene's nephew in
England by the kindness of our Whig friends, and the high
living of our grandees, makes me still revolve in my mind , what
I wrote both to yourself and couz Mick of what I apprehended
so much for our friend Stanhope hereafter on the peace and his
release from captivity,2 which I am afraid will be but one period.
!The Characteristics. 3 August, 1712.
Letters. 487
I am sorry for the death of my old friend Lord Pelham.1
As the world goes I have taken him all along for one of the
honestest of men, and most true to the interest of the public.
I must now turn myself to couz Mick, thanking you for
yours of the 29th of February (the last date), to which I have
thus answered, adding only my kind remembrances to all yours
and to Mopet a kind adieu.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
April 2Qth, 1712.
This is the copy of what I wrote you April 12th in Bryan's
hand, adding a great deal privately to you in my own of which
I could not have a copy kept. Let me again and again remind
you of my instructions, and not to think me so weak and
changeable as to depart from what I resolved when going away
so deliberately both with Sir John's, Mr. Micklethwayt's, yours,
and other friends' approbation, my wife joining heartily with
me also as to her part ; so neither as to Lord Ashley or his hired
coach or any other circumstance of my family affairs let any
change be imagined or hearkened to by you, however my good
friend Sir John may in zeal be transported from his good
judgment. My instructions in writing were with the foresight
of this, and to this very end, so that I wonder to find you
hesitate and suppose me still so hesitating and uncertain myself.
It is sad to be left thus in such silence and with so little
correspondence on your side. Not a friend's letter besides
(among the many weekly of my wife's and mine) has as yet
miscarried, and yours (bills and all) are lost. No duplicates sent
or coming that I can yet learn. I suffer on all accounts. 'Tis
very sad.
I hope you will be able to find the parcels of books, &c.,
which you should have sent with the tin boxes now safely come
to hand by the Phoenix galley. There are wanting my precious
(though foul) two first volumes of Cliar cks, corrected and
Thomas Pelham, first Baron Pelham (born 1650), died 23rd
February, 1712. He belonged to the Whig party, and was Lord
Commissioner of the Treasury during the years from 1689 to 1702.
488 Letters.
marked with crosses and ordinarily bound at Reigate by the
instrument, and Mrs. Skinner's work. I miss also Coles's
English and Latin Dictionary ; Mr. Coste's corrected trans
lation of Sensus Communis, a little French book — the title,
Essai sur la Raillerie1 — for the words Sensus Communis are
not in the French title.
I have a sad winter even here; am in a weak way, but
rather hope of recovery. Dues to all; love and wishes to
family, &c.
TO THE ABBE FARELY.
NAPLES, the 3rd of May, 1712.
SIR, — Since your obliging letters of the 25th and 28th of
January to my own and second self,2 our debt to you is still
increased by the same double favour of the second of March in
answer to ours some time before.
Though I have now strength enough to hold a pen, I am
hardly got out of my chamber, having tried but one day (and
that with ill success) to take the air in a coach. But the
warmth of the season, though long a coming (for we have had
an extremely cold spring), has abated my cough, and raised me
a little from that very weak state to which I was reduced by
my cough and asthma, with my fever still hanging on me.
The good nurse, governess, and doctoress, whom you so kindly
remember, has much ado to forbear being again scrittorist* on
this occasion : not merely in my behalf, as sparing me a pains
which she knows in other respects is so agreeable to me, but
that she may herself have the satisfaction of making you her
kind returns for the most truly and obliging compliments you
have made her. There are none indeed which are so pleasing to
her as those of the kind you have made her on my account.
We live in hopes still of peaceable times, and seeing you once
1 Essai sur 1'usage de la raillerie et de 1'enjouement dans les
conversations que roulent sur les matieres les plus importantes [Signed
S. C. S. v., i.e., A. A. Cooper, third Earl of Shaftesbury] Traduit
de 1' Anglais [by Pierre Coste]. Amst., 1710.
3 Shaftesbury's wife. * Secretaress.
Letters. 489
again at Paris, in our way home. It is a great satisfaction and
honour for us to be remembered, as you mention, by my Lord
Duke of Berwick, Mrs. Waldgrave, my Lord Timouth, Lord
Fitz- James, or any of that noble family, to whom we beg the
return of our most grateful acknowledgments, and most humble
services.
A line or two sometimes from yourself, with or without
news, will always be highly agreeable ; it being itself the most
satisfactory news to hear well of the noble good family, and of
yourself in particular; who may justly claim the acknowledg
ment of my being (as Lady Shaftesbury would also have you to
esteem her) your sincere friend and humble servant.
P.S. — The Dutch prints which you have been so kind as to
send us come to this place (as we find) much sooner than by
yours from Paris. But any article of news from Paris itself
would be very acceptable, whenever you are so kind as to
write to us.
[Address:] A Mons. L'Abbe" Farely, a Paris.
TO HENRY WILKINSON.
NAPLES, 10^ of May, 1712.
HARRY, — I am sorry that by my slow recovery I am still
hindered from writing to you as I would sometimes do, and
much more fully, with my own hand. Particularly I would wish
to do so in answer to yours of the 1st of April, in which you ask
advice, &c., with particular bemoanings of your misfortune
under your present circumstances, and from the malice of
enemies. What enemies you should have made yourself or by
what means I cannot conceive, being a single man and employed
in no public business or station of difficult conduct, by which
enemies are acquired.
I have often told you that ill surmises and apprehensions, as
well as want of patience and meek sufferance of some few slights
and accidental offences from friends or indifferent persons, is the
cause of procuring enemies and sometimes of turning friends also
against us. But I hope this is not your case. Interest will always
cause struggles and emulation in the way of ordinary business
490 Letters,
and conversation. But this needs not rise to quarrel and provo
cation, which a single man, who has only his own conduct to
answer for, may easily, by meek behaviour, prevent when he has
no public charge or hard duty incumbent on him.
If in other respects your circumstances or credit are low, I
fear it will not be the right time for you to think of marriage,
unless a very unexpected advantageous offer presents. But
to wait or court rich offers is an expectancy I have often known
ruinous to young men, and chiefly those in business. If it
please God that by your diligence and perseverance in sobriety
and industry, you get credit and interest, I should not be sorry
to hear you were established by a discreet match; especially
with a family of the country where you are, or in any part of
Holland, or the Provinces. But for the English nation I fear it
will not prove so fortunate for you to apply there ; and your
thoughts had better be where your education and business have
been. Take care of the enclosed. God be with you.
[Address :] To Mr. Wilkinson, at Rotterdam.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, 17th May, 1712.
SIR, — The continuance of your favour by each post since
the 26th of last month gives me the highest proof of your
friendship, as well as the greatest pleasure imaginable in the
advice and just remarks which you communicate.
Our common home-concern and the common cause itself is so
particularly become the affair of Providence that hardly the
worst of Ministries^(had we such a one) could with the utmost
industry effect our ruin. The death of this last princess (the
St. Germain issue) will give such strength to our Protestant
House of Hanover, that if they adhere to the noble principles
of their memorial they will not only be the means of saving
the honour and interest of our good Queen, but secure to their
house hereafter a happy and prosperous administration.
What you suggest with just ground as to the Court of
Turin will, I hope, soon appear, though things have hitherto
looked so ill that way. If he be, as he is esteemed, a wise and
Letters. 491
able prince,1 I can now say we are sure of him. The little
prospect of issue from the Emperor raises his pretensions and
hope so strongly towards the crown of Spain that he too must
come in with us, upon the memorial foot, and join in the Whig
maxim of Spain and the Indies to be absolutely taken out of
the Bourbon family. Should our Court and that of France
offer him the crown of Lombardy, to buy him off from this
prospect and the fair game he has before him, I am satisfied
if he be truly able, he will despise it, and choose to receive a
crown, as he may easily on better terms, from the same hands
and by the same interest as the King of Prussia received his.
But if there be anything in that negotiation of the flying
spectre2 (of whom you have again written), I fancy it is some
intrigue of this kind. The hook must be well baited that
catches such a prince. And as good an angler as a certain
gentleman is thought to be (especially in troubled waters), I
doubt whether he will find success in such an affair. That
prince, I conceive, will not easily sacrifice the interest he has
made himself in the grand alliance, nor set at defiance three
such powers as the Emperor, the States, and the successional
house of the Crown of England, so fortified as of late, and
between whom and the real English and Protestant party there
seems at present so firm a correspondence established. . . .
TO THE REVEREND DR. FAGAN.
NAPLES, the 2lst of May, 1712.
SIR, — The unaccountable miscarriage of both our letters had
made me almost quit the hope of keeping up my correspondence
with you otherwise than by the opportunity of persons coming
and going between this and Rome. But your last, of the 14th,
having come safe and in due time, as well as several others
between Mr. Brown and my steward, I resolved to return
answer in the same manner -and send you my kind thanks for
your inquiries after my health, which till very lately has
scarce in the least advanced.
1 Victor Amadeus II., Duke of Savoy. 3 Earl of Peterborough.
492 Letters.
I now find a little comfort in the summer season, which is
now advanced after a very unseasonable and unnatural spring.
I am not yet able to take the benefit of the air abroad, having
tried but once or twice, and that with very ill success, the
weather happening ill.
I continue to entertain myself with those amusing studies
in which you have assisted me by your correspondence and the
recommendation of Mr. French, who will stay with me some
time longer, and (I hope) not to his disadvantage.
The world is now in sad confusion even in the courts of
Princes themselves, where death reigns as cruelly as in the field.
All counsels are perplexed and policy in a manner out of its
bias. The ambitious and great may be less envied than ever ;
and those who by necessity are driven from public affairs and
the higher sphere of action may with less reason be lamented.
I should think it a happy improvement in my health if I
could but hope soon to bear a journey to Rome, though without
partaking in any of the entertainments of the place besides your
single conversation and the view sometimes of the ancient works
and those few moderns which have followed and approach them.
Enclosed is an answer to our good friend, whose letter you
were so kind as to forward, as you have kindly offered to do
mine in return. — I am, with particular esteem, Sir, your sincere,
humble servant.
[Address :] To the Reverend Dr. Fagan, at Rome.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
NAPLES, the 5th June, 1712.
To MR. COSTE, — I have at last heard from you fully and
with great satisfaction concerning that long period of time in
which you have entered into new occupations, travelled about
England, visited universities, crossed the seas, saluted your old
friends in Holland, and received my last with my project in
painting, which I earnestly wait to receive back again corrected
from you, since you think it really worth correcting.
You enjoin me to speak of my health. It is the subject on
which, I confess, I have the least pleasure to write, since I can
Letters. 493
give such indifferent hopes of it. By my using thus another
hand (as I have been forced to do almost in every letter since my
last to you), you may readily guess how matters stand with me.
We have had a wretched cold spring. All March and part of
April I lay still extremely ill. This last month I recovered a
little, and was able four or five times to take a little air abroad ;
but the last time, being surprised in a thunderstorm, though
closely wrapped and in a close chair, I have been much thrown
back ; so very weak I am grown. If pains can be alleviated and
a sick state made easy or tolerable to anything besides a good
mind, well exercised, and inured to hardship, I have had that all
along, and still have, which would soften the hardest affliction.
I mean that companion, nurse, and friend whose fortitude and
strength of mind you heard so justly spoken of by Dr. Hobart.
Methinks, as you have seen one part of this good lady's virtues,
I want you 'should be witness to this other different part and
change of scene. For of all pictures I think such as these the
finest. And as for my virtuosoship and dealings in those
arts, it has all its reference to such sort of views and beauties,
as you may see sufficiently by what I sent you last. I
must own it would be a particular satisfaction, if the little
specimen,1 touched up (as painters say) by your finishing hand
could communicate to others any part of that delight which I
myself have found in these amusements thus morally turned, and
with a glance towards manners, honesty, and virtue. And I could
wish you would make the trial of this by communicating the
piece thus corrected and transcribed (if it be worth it) to some
friend or friends, who, having no partiality for the unknown
author, might discover to you the real acceptation it would in
probability find with the polite sort of mankind. And a line
or two giving me an account of the real issue of such an
experiment would be very acceptable.
1 rejoice to hear that it is my worthy friend Sir Harry
Hobart's2 son with whom you are engaged. I hope I am likely
to have the happiness of seeing you with him at Naples soon,
1 " The Judgment of Hercules."
2 Sir Henry Hobart, fourth baronet, who was killed in a duel
in 1699.
494 Letters.
though you say not what time you compute your journey. You
will find me, if alive, entertaining myself very busily with
drawings, sketches, prints, medals, and antiques, which as well
as pictures and other virtuoso-implements are brought often to
my chamber and bedside ; and sometimes, when able to be up
and receive company, I have a virtuoso-friend or two, particularly
Don Joseph Valetta's family and friends (so noted for their
learning and collections) who are so kind as to visit me upon
these unequal terms.
If you could bring with you a good book or two relating
to medals, I should be very glad. I can get none here but the
Italian ; none either in Latin or French.
You may easily believe the satisfaction I had in hearing so
fully concerning CJiaracteristicks, and particularly of the value
set on it by such a Prince as you named to me. As for a
translation of the other pieces, it is what I have never thought
could be attempted. But could you revise and correct the same
translation of the Letter of Enthusiasm,1 with a few notes after
the manner of the following letter, viz., Essai sur la Raillerie?
I might have hopes that by leaving them in your friend's hands
at Amsterdam, the booksellers agreeing might publish them
together correct. And sure I am that the already published
translation of the Essays (with the few after corrections of
your pen) is a most perfect and true original, with improvement.
You say not how I should address my letters to you, so I am
forced to send this at a venture to Mr. La Motte by way of
Rotterdam, as I did my last.
The good Lady (my more than one half) takes your
remembrances very kindly, and remembers you with suitable
return, and with great delight, in particular on the favourable
account and promising hopes of the little one whom you saw at
Kensington.
1 Shaf tesbury's "Letter Concerning Enthusiasm" Lond., 1707,
was also printed in French at the Hague, as appears by its review in
Le Clerc's BiUiotheque Choisie, Utrecht, 1710, Vol. XIX., pp. 427—
431.
2 Shaf tesbury's Sensus Communis, an Essay on the Freedom of
Wit and Humour, Lond., 1709, and also in French at the Hague with
the title Essai sur VUsage de la Raillerie. Ibid, pp. 431 — 436.
Letters. 495
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the 7th of June, 1712.
. . . I was sorry to read such melancholy expressions
from you in respect of my ill state of health. Methinks I
should from that very ground have greater weight in persuading
my friends (those who are so affectionately such) to take the
greater care of their own healths and lives. And the kind
regard you have for my former and latter issue (for which I
have taken so much pains to live) should methinks hearten you
more, whilst Providence is so wonderfully favourable to us in
this, as by your repeated accounts I still hear with so much
satisfaction. Nor need my spouse and I regret the loss of being
witness of little one's prettinesses, whilst we have so good a
correspondent and such a sharer as yourself.
For my other progeny which you reprove me for speaking
more of, and with more seeming affection, you may be sure I
can't refrain still talking with you of it. And in particular, I
am longing to hear how the Notion1 and Letter2 has been
received by my old Lord friend.5
Your modicum, as you call it (though I have not received
your bills) is already engaged, and will procure you, I hope, the
two noble pieces I mentioned to you in mine of February the
16th. They are alone a noble furniture for any moderate room,
each being seven or eight foot high and five or six broad,
without frames, and are exact beautiful matches for one another,
which makes them the more valuable both together. If you
continue the resolution of having the copy of what you say
is so perfectly my own performance (meaning my piece of
Hercules), you shall soon have it with you when it is perfected
and dry enough to put up for sending. Nor will it be a copy,
1 " A Notion of the Historical Draught or Tablature of the
Judgment of Hercules," which appeared in English in 1713 and
was reprinted in the second edition of the Characteristics in 1714.
2 " A Letter concerning the Art or Science of Design," which was
first published in the edition of the Characteristics issued in 1732.
3 Lord Somers, to whom the " Letter concerning Design," which
accompanied the " Judgment of Hercules," was addressed.
496 Letters.
but in reality an original as much as the great piece itself, on
which I have bestowed so much of my money, which makes this
piece come so much the easier, for a fifth part or little more —
viz., twenty pound English or thereabouts. But if you like not
this overplus of charge, you shall have the pleasure, however, of
seeing it, for it shall be my purchase, and pass through your
hands (as the Letter and Notion) to my same old Lord friend,
having given him a kind of distant hint of such a small present,
as you will have read in the letter itself. Pray write in answer
how you will determine this, for on my own side I am deter
mined, and the piece is going on.
Now I must a word to cousin Mick, so bid kind adieu.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, 28th June, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — It is a great satisfaction to hear thus
punctually from you (as by last post and this) since Sir John's
being at Beach worth. In this your last of May 16th, I learn
the share you take in the tutorage of our little one. Continue
it, I conjure you, dear couz., and remember to put them in
mind of what my wife and I both wrote a while since, and
what my wife now writes to Sister Nanny this post.
I have been dictating as much as I am able to Sir John
about what he so earnestly presses me, my health — a sorry
subject. By next post, or at furthest the post after, I hope to
send you what will be more agreeable, my only amusement
and allay of pain — I mean my virtuoso-doings, viz., my instruc
tions for another volume. Frontispiece plate, which will be that
of volume third, as full of mischief and shrewd meaning as
the other (the Triumph), already sent and now in hand, is
innocent and merely philosophical. The last of these three
plates which I am to send you will be the first according to
their natural order. But you will see the reason why I send
you this third and last volume-plate before I send you that
of the first volume, which will be easy to comprehend as well
as to execute after this third, which I am to send you the
next. The remaining single six grotesque plates for the six
Letters. 497
several treatises (to be placed over each first page of the text)
will be easily finished and sent to you post after post, when
this great design and long packet of instructions has been
despatched, of which I give you and Mr. Gribelin warning
so long beforehand, it being such a knotty business, though
I hope you will have no little pleasure in it, and be perhaps
some improvement.
The Neptune galley has come and the things are safe.
I am much puzzled about Sir John's hundred-pound com
mission, since his strict reducing of me to that sum, and the
manner of remitting it me, concerning which I refer you to
my letter to him this post.
I was much mortified the other day, when the noble family
of Valettas and Dorias visited me again, that I could not by
your means return them any compliments either from the
Bishop, Sir Isaac, or others, in answer to their application and
compliments through me. Though I could get nothing (nor
yet can) like either thanks or compliments by Sir John's means
to the Viceroy here, yet I hoped by your means, and by my own
letters and applications, to have procured some compliments
from our learned in England, in return to these considerable
inhabitants of a place where I am like to reside, and need so
much protection and countenance.
The book you mention, designed by these gentlemen (as
I suppose) a present to the Bishop, &c., is of Sig. Doria's writing.
He is of that noblest family now in the world from the Doria
of Genoa, the only founder of a State among the moderns,
and to be numbered with the ancient Publicolas Lycurguses, &c.
Pray how has Monsieur Le Clerc's translated extract gone
off ? If this lies on hand I shall fear Pliilol. begins to deaden.
Pray let me know the truth. I would not waste my time in
meditating future improvements and virtuoso embellishments
if the public really grows indifferent, and there be no earnest
call for another edition. Pray be sincere with me in this, and
I shall know how to instruct you to deal with Mr. D — y, if
I live.
What you write again this last time about a servant gives
me hopes. Some English he must necessarily know, though he
be perfect in French ; as on the other side he must know
KK
498 Letters.
French in some tolerable degree, though he be ever so good an
Englishman. Nor after all should I have had any reluctancy
to comply with Sir John's petition for Jack Howard had he
been but so diligent as to have got the principles of the French
language ; and in that case a French valet-de-chambre, taken
as a supernumerary and a kind of second steward during my
passage or stay merely in France, would have done my business
completely, at a small charge.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
NAPLES, July 12th, 1712 [N.S.].
Bryan has written you of my lingering state. I know not
yet what hopes I have of recovering or ever seeing you. Mean
while I may thank Providence for the time gained and a family
saved when I thought it past retrieve. Your accounts of Lord
Ashley are very joyful. He is my all, I must expect to leave no
more after me. My health is too unpromising for such thoughts.
By your care his estate and circumstances I hope will be made
up. I hope you are yourself satisfied in what you have done
and acted at St. Giles's for his, and mine, and family's sake.
What signifies it who besides is dissatisfied with your execution
of my orders ? Must not my family take breath awhile ? Has
it not sufficiently spent itself for the public, as well as I, my
breath, health, and life ?
Be satisfied that I myself am entirely so in all you have
done. And I hope you will at last know me for a steady man
and firm to my own determinations. I earnestly conjure you
never more to relapse into doubts and mistrusts of me. But
pursue your instructions. And never mind so much at what
even my friend Sir John reports to you contrary to them.
I cannot but be surprised at one thing in your last letter
about Bryan. I was expecting that when I heard from you
next you would have shown your concern for my acting as I
have done with such regard to your nephew and so little to
myself, in being content to let him go (rather than lose his
station) after such pains as I have taken to fit him not only for
my own service but for the world, and for business and mankind
Letters. 499
at large, by such instruction, advice, council, reproof, exhortation,
familiarity, friendship, as if he had not been yours but my own
relation.
And now I am to come, God knows, into the hands of
strangers, perfect strangers, and foreigners, perhaps Papists, and
this in my sick state and with a wife, poor Mr. Crell growing
every day less and less capable of anything. What is the
meaning of your writing as you do about your nephew, as if it
were my choice that he should leave me ? But I will not be his
hindrance. Nor could I well expect that he should make me
such an offer as to lose his place and fortune for my sake. Had
he made the offer I could not indeed have found in my heart to
accept ; you know how little selfish I am and in such cases how
I am apt to act. Meanwhile, if John Howard have really such a
kind of affection for me as you intimate, I have need enough of
him about me in my sick state, and to ease my poor wife. His
business and station will be my chamber, and his habit accord
ingly gentleman-like, and place creditable. He may be a help to
my wife in inspecting the steward or caterer's accounts, and to
me in bills, returns, &c., which I shall not willingly let pass
through a foreigner's sole management. A little, very little
French would make John Howard a seasonable support and
frugal addition to my small family, if the fellow's affection
stand really towards me as you hint. Pray write your thoughts,
but keep them [otherwise] to yourself. God be with you.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
(By my wife's hand.)
NAPLES, 19^ July, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — You see by whose hand I am forced to
write to you. My two assistants (Bryan and Mr. Crell) are
both down in fevers, of which we have every one felt something,
and I myself with much ado got over it, but weakened and
fallen away to the utmost degree, kept alive by the fine season
and warmth of air by which I breathe, and hope while it lasts
to recover some strength.
Yours last received (viz., of the 6th of June), with the copies
500 Letters.
in that (and in Sir John's of the same date) from our captive
friend,1 has so raised my spirits and thought, that notwith
standing good reasons, public and private, to discourage me in
such entertaining and pleasant amusements as the adorning
Char ks2 and other pieces (as yet but embryos) with devices,
lapidary, grotesque, and of other kinds, I am now come again to
the same agreeable study, and resolve in composition and design
of every kind (both pen and pencil) to support, adorn, and
recommend as well as I can those tracts which so brave a soul
and so excellent a genius believes to be of advantage to man
kind, and likely to prove beneficial to my countrymen, and to
the cause of liberty and virtue.3
Accordingly, whereas I was now resolved once again to stop
at the three frontispiece-volumes — plates of the lapidary kind,
I now take heart and resolve to proceed with the six little
grotesques for each treatise, as I before engaged. And now
1 General Stanhope. 2 The Characteristics.
3 Extract of a letter from General Stanhope to Sir John Cropley,
of the 26th April, 1712. — I cease not to study Characteristics, and find
my value and admiration for the author increase daily, nor do I believe
anything hath been writ these many ages so likely to be of use to
mankind, by improving men's morals as well as their understandings.
I can at least affirm of myself that I am the better man for the study
I have bestowed on them, and if I mistake not very much, they will
occasion a new turn of thinking as well as writing, whereby our
English authors may become hereafter more instructive and delighting.
I assure you that I often please myself with the thoughts of taking a
pilgrimage after the peace to make him a visit if he continues abroad,
and should think a journey taken for that purpose may better deserve
to be accounted an act of religion and devotion than most pilgrimages
are. I am sure it would be a very agreeable one if you would be of
the party, and, considering the chief end I propose to myself in it, am
apt to believe that you would not need very much persuasion. It
would be making our friend but an indifferent compliment to say, that
as things are like to be at home, one would choose to be absent oneself
from thence some time, not to see what one does not like, nor do I
believe that it would be necessary to urge that as an argument to
persuade you to such a ramble ; and I protest to you, for myself, that
I could with pleasure leave any company and take ever so long a
journey purely for a few days' conversations with him.
Letters. 501
Cebes, &c., may follow in due time, if my life go beyond this
summer, and that I live to see the beginning of another.
Meanwhile what a difference there is between the zeal of
one who ought, one would think, to have no small share (I mean
Mr. C l) and the great man who would go so far out of his
way to promote PhiloL2 All the hints I can give cannot induce
him so much as to revise, correct, and add a few notes to the
translation of the first treatise (viz., Letter of Enth.)3, which,
joined to his already translated second treatise (viz., Sen. Com.),
would make a pretty volume, with a preface and dedication to
that great prince4 who (as Mr. C. himself wrote me) took
such pains in the midst of these hard times and weight upon
him, to have a few scraps of that author translated for him,
here and there. Of this I sent you an extract out of Mr. C 's
own letter. But neither that prince's curiosity, or applause, or
any other fame besides in the world, could move me like that
zeal and opinion expressed by our captive friend.
Thanks, dear Couz., for the letter I expect from the-Koyal
Society and Sir Isaac Newton, to my virtuoso friends here.
I shall be mighty glad to receive that unworthy fellow
D y's sheet of criticisms on Char ks, however pedantic or
ignorant any of them may prove. I entreat you to let me have
them all ; and in answer to his cunning covetous practices with
you, remember what I wrote to you in mine of 7th of June, and
in the warmth of discourse when you push it home let fall to
him, " That the same author has already finished two tracts of a
new set of treatises, on subjects which, though wholly different
from the former set, will prove the greatest support, reinforce
ment, and illustration imaginable of what has preceded ; and in
a way new, beautiful, virtuoso-like, fashionable, polite, beyond
any idea he can have of it ; and that the titles, as well as the
substance, of those old and of these new will exactly correspond,
though the turn and manner of the pieces be so diversified."
Let him chew upon this ; and if he prove not tractable, let
him know that we have Italy for cuts, designs, and ornaments ;
and that we have Holland for paper and print. Keep close in
1 Pierre Coste. 2 The Characteristics.
3 See letter 5th June, 1712, footnote p. 4 Prince Eugene.
502 Letters.
your hands the corrections I shall send you (which will be very
considerable), and so tell him you intend to do, till all be fixed
with him to your content: and hereupon you may venture to
demur, and send me word how the gentleman proceeds, and
whether he will not instantly come to terms.
I hope you have received my draughts, last post, of the third
volume, lapidary plate, with the instructions enclosed in Sir
John's, because of not making one packet too big.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
NAPLES, the 25th of July, 1712.
MR. COSTE, — I received yours of the first from Utrecht just
at the time I have got strength enough to use a pen myself, and
write a line in return. Had yours come to me but a day or two
sooner, I had been still unable to write not only by own hand,
by anybody's about me ; for, besides my own habitual distemper
and weakness, I was scarce out of a fever, which was general
through all my little family: my wife and her servant, Mr.
Crelle, Bryan Wheelock, and every English servant I had,
having been down in the same fever, and Mr. Crelle (who should
write for me) still in the weakest condition imaginable. But
my wife (thank God), with her excellent constitution, soon
got over it. A little matter depresses me, and I am sunk
indeed very low ; but the warmth of the climate keeps me
alive.
I do not wonder at your complaint of the uncertainty of
your rambling life ; but I hope it will contribute to your health,
yours being still in a condition to profit by it. And I count it
a happiness for a man of letters to be stirred up so, and set a
running once in four or five years, to balance the ill effect of
study, retirement, and a sedentary life, which are apt to make
an untoward revolution in his spirits and humour, as well as on
his constitution. You had your share in your almost five years'
confinement in the deserts of Chiply, where I am sure you were
cohabitant with no mind or understanding but what might be
called desert.
Though I see the reasons why you could not touch up my
Letters. 503
little draught of Hercules,1 &c., I cannot but regret my loss in
it, being so kindly importuned as I am by some of my virtuoso
friends here for a sight of it, ever since I read some paragraphs
to them, and gave it my artist to read in the condition it is for
the better carrying on of the great piece, which is now finished
to my satisfaction.
In my last (of the 5th of last month) I let fall to you my
wishes that after you had corrected this little piece you would
let it be seen by some friend who knew not the author, and who
would be less partial than your friendship (I am apt to think)
may render you in such an affair. If the piece were found
valuable I could freely commit it to you ; and the author being
for the present unknown (no matter what happened afterwards)
should be content to see it abroad in any journal. That of
Monsieur Le Clerc's would be too high an honour for it perhaps.
The reason why I wish this is because I should, from the effect
of this when it was read by people of fashion, be able to judge
whether or no it would be worth my while to turn my thoughts
(as I am tempted) towards the further study of design and
plastic art, both after the ancient and modern foundations, being
able (as I myself) to instil by this means some further thoughts
of virtue and honesty and the love of liberty and mankind, after
a way wholly new and unthought of ; at least after a way very
entertaining and pleasant to myself, and with the only sort of
application or study which my weak health and exceeding low
state allow me, nothing being more cheerful and reviving than
this amusement of pictures, medals, drawings, and the reading
of this sort, which by any other body's help I can enjoy. For
whatever language is required a little reading serves; and that
so easy that whether it be the lives of the artists themselves, or
little stories relating to them, or whatever else out of Pliny or
Pausanias, and as well as out of the modern life-writers of late
masters, there is no difficulty in lending an ear to such pleasant
fragments and things which require no thread of thought or
reason, no intention or bent of mind, and which everyone
who comprehends the language can read in a natural tone, as
comprehending enough of the story and subject. But if I
1 " The Judgment of Hercules " as first written in French.
504 Letters.
barely flatter myself in the imagination of rendering any
such subjects agreeable to others as they are to myself, I would
fain be resolved, since I should be sorry to throw away time in
such little works or compositions, when at the bottom I found
they would not (by my pen at least) be rendered so entertaining
to the polite sort as to serve instead of an agreeable vehicle for
the moral potion, which by itself is become mere physic and
loathsome to mankind, so as to require a little sweetening to
help it down.
I have now to thank you for the most agreeable present
you have made me in the transcript of the criticism of the
worthy and learned Mr. Leibnitz1 on Characteristics. You may
safely in the author's name acknowledge the honour he thinks
he has received by it, the satisfaction he finds in the candour
and justness of his censure, particularly in what relates to the
two great concessions of that author in favour of raillery and
the way of humour. Does not the author himself secretly confess
as much in his work ? And does he not seem to despise himself
in his third and last volume of Miscellanies at the very entrance
when, after having passed his principal and main philosophical
work in the middle volume, he returns again to his mixed
satirical ways of raillery and irony, so fashionable in our nation,
which can be hardly brought to attend to any writing, or
consider anything as witty, able, or ingenious which has not
strongly this turn ? Witness the prevalency and first success of
that detestable writing of that most detestable author of the
Tale of a Tub,2 whose manners, life, and prostitute pen and
tongue are indeed exactly answerable to the irregularity,
obscenity, profaneness, and fulsomeness of his false wit and
scurrilous style and humour. Yet you know how this extra
ordinary work pleased even our great philosophers themselves,
and how few of those who disliked it dared declare against it.
For our author's part I dare declare for him that he takes even
1 Leibnitz's criticism of the Characteristics is to be found in his
works (Gerhardt's ed., III., 421-3). An English translation of this
review is among the MSS. in the Record Office.
2 Swift, whose Tale of the Tub appeared in 1704, dedicated to
Lord Somers.
Letters. 505
this censure of Mr. Leibnitz as a real honour done to him,
and (what is far more) as a just testimony rendered to
truth and virtue. How much must he, therefore, of necessity
be raised by the encomiums afforded him from so eminent a
hand?
The vanity you have stirred in me by what you thus
communicate from your parts will tempt me to send you,
perhaps, by another post some transcripts of like encomiums
from another part of Europe, as they were sent to me by certain
friends from an illustrious prisoner in Spain,1 whose passion for
certain works has carried him to the thought of employing his
studious hours in the attempt even of translating some of the
tracts into other languages.
I must confess that these and other approbations from those
of the highest merit and best judgment make me conceive so
much a higher value than I could have presupposed of those
works, and such an opinion of the good they may possibly do in
the world, that if Mr. Leibnitz's critical encomium could, with his
leave and on account of his great name and just character, be
thought worth the being inserted in Mr. Le Clerc's Bibliotheque
Choisie, I should be very much pleased; especially since it
serves to support Mr. Le Clerc's favourable judgment of that
author.
I am too much spent with this which I have written to be
able to add more than my own and spouse's kind remembrances
to you with all good wishes. Adieu ! Adieu !
P.S. — Upon second thoughts, I find I cannot well send you
the copies of that great man's sentiments on Characteristics, but
reserve them for your inspection, when I am so happy as to see
you here in the winter, if I live so long. Pray if you light on
any good edition, private or particular remarks, notes, or
thoughts on Cebes's Table, pick them up and bring them
improved to me by your own reflections, and also the stamp or
cut (taille-douce), be it ever so indifferent, which is seen
annexed to some of the editions of that inestimable little
piece.
1 General Stanhope.
506 Letters.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, the 2nd of August, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — I have not heard from you this last post.
I wrote by the last the 25th of last (not directly indeed, but
in my wife's to Sis. N.) in answer to your last of June 13th,
about virtuoso matters.
The warm weather continues, which barely supports me,
so that I am able to compose, write, and act in my usual way.
My wife and family are up again of their fevers, and she
herself as well and strong as ever. So it is not my disorder
of health or affairs which prevents my sending this post (as
I promised) the remaining one of the volume-plates, of which
Mr. Grib — l has by this time two to work upon ; as he shall
have the rest of the flourish- works fast enough, I promise him,
that he may not exceed the four months in which he has
promised to finish. But other subjects have at this instant
and for the last fortnight or three weeks filled my head and
heart. It becomes me, however, to conquer myself, even in
this respect, and for my country's sake (as far as I can be of
any use or service in it) to put out of my head the consideration
of the political concerns of it. I will master this passion and
return to my virtuoso studies. These are my second parts.
These are my arms, and in this writing-practice lies my ammuni
tion and artillery, whilst I hold myself in breath and whet
my pen for my friends' and country's use, and for their revenge,
if I am urged and called to it, by personal ill-treatment.
I may justly congratulate with you, and with myself, that
I am under such an incapacity of acting in public affairs,
at such a season when the consequence would in all likelihood
be a total breach with those old friends, and particularly that
great one2 with whom no power of courts or parties, no private
obligations or disobligations to Ministries, could ever make me
violate an old friendship which I held from my earliest youth
for him and his.
It is now some weeks past since I wrote, after my best
fashion, two several letters to a great man on your behalf.
1 Mr. Gribelin. 3 Possibly the Earl of Oxford.
Letters. 507
But they are neither of them sent, nor would have been (you
may be sure) but through Sir John's and your hands. They
were not sneaking. But such as they were I now think it
not fit to send them, nor any other until I have better occasion.
This is a wicked age and season. God keep you honest. I hope
my early advices and written instructions in your table book
(when you first entered into a public employ), as well as what I
wrote you in a few lines in mine of the 7th of June last, will
stick by you. Your prudence, discretion, and reserve will, I
hope, nevertheless accompany your integrity. But for a certain
liberty which our friend gives himself in writing to me so
contrary to his sentiments, though in my own favour, and in
order to communicate affairs ; it is such a violation of sincerity
that were he not my elder, and his case (I well know) incurable,
I should conjure him to forbear. Content I am, heartily content,
to receive no news from you on such terms as these ; though I
might hear facts without reflections. You are still young, and
may keep a virgin heart, though your head grows riper, and can
teach you prudence. — For God's sake urge me no more (nor
let Sir John) about writing THANKS to certain persons, even
persons lender and below persons, inferior, second persons, and
all that, to speak in Mr. Bays's style. — I know best what style
and manner befits me when I write, and what even in prudence
and mere policy in your behalf, as well as in respect to my own
character, is a proper part for me on this occasion. — Read over,
at this moment (I beseech you) what I wrote in my own hand in
mine of the 15th of March, from the accidental occasion of
Bryan's concern ; on which I wrote indeed with some warmth.
But your case lay at the bottom. I wrote more coolly after
wards in mine of the 22nd, following in which I spoke of light
out of darkness, Hamlet's ghost, and recommended honesty and
courage as good ingredients in policy ; desiring I might be left
to my good humour : which I shall endeavour to keep. But for
THANKS (I pray !) What thanks ? To whom ? For what ? Am
I then that very crane indeed ? And has my neck been so deep
in throats to such purpose? Am I so mere a worm? — Let
me tell you (and I care not who hears me say it), I sit not
idle ; though far off. I have secrets, a long history, a pen, and
something of a name in the world. I can be heard, and in a
508 Letters.
certain capacity can command the public ear ; of which some late
successes have particularly put me in possession. " I can speak
even when I am dead ; and shall have that to leave behind me
which " may do myself and friends, as well as my country, some
kind of right." Let those to whom I still pay the highest respect
amuse me, or cast me off if they think fit. — These are my arms
— remember. — But for other submissive practices, either in my
name or by a countenance, as coming from me, remember I
protest against it. And if such a course of insincerity should
prevail, and a further siege laid to honesty and virtue, I would
throw in such a bomb as would ruin the approaches and sappings
of this underground work. My great disciple1 will, I hope, keep
free of this contagion, when he returns. At the same time I
most heartily wish him to use prudence and reserve. But I can
whisper that in his ear (as far off as I am) which would fire him,
if there were occasion. — Therefore, no tampering, I conjure
you. — Weigh well this letter and those to which I refer.
Remember my strength, my proper arms as well as character. —
So to my virtuoso-businesses, and smoother style, and subjects of
which you are to hear next post, and which it will be your
interest as well as pleasure to promote. — No more of those
serious affairs — I have done. — Farewell.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, 2nd of August, 1712.
Though besides my ordinary sickness, with the aggravation
of a reigning fever, I have had withal a sick family about me
for this fortnight or three weeks past (the fever having spared
not one of us), I should, however, within that time, or at least
by one of these latter posts, have found means to send you a
line or two in return to the many you have so constantly
obliged me with ; but in reality my amazement has been such
at the progress of affairs2 in Britain that I am almost at an end
of thinking, much less can I either speak or write of them. In
reality matters are now pushed so far that an Englishman, who
1 General Stanhope.
2 The Whigs dreaded any peace that promised to leave Spain in
possession of the House of Bourbon.
Letters. 509
is truly such, can hardly make a single reflection which is fit to
trust to paper.
I now fear the case of some people is as our old poet Ben
Jonson has represented Catiline — " The ills which they have
done are not to be atoned but by doing greater." Foundations,
however, are not so easily overturned ; and when all is struck at
there may be more effectual resistance than when pillar after
pillar our building was impaired, and the sap carried on with
subtilty and underground work. I may well regret that I have
no part left me in this unequal correspondence which you are
so thoroughly kind as to maintain with me, but only that of
condolence. I must still return, however, to that old topic which
I must again and again repeat — that if we are not overwhelmed,
if we sink not all at once (foundation and all), even this shame
and misery may prove our future happiness and safety. For
well I know how soon a Court, whatever obligations of gratitude
they may lie under, are ready to abandon their best friends in
favour of a certain party who can sing in their ear that sweet
siren song of obedience without reserve, absolute power,
unlimited monarchy, &c. But here is a scene now openitag, a
part of action carrying on, which how tragical it may prove
no one can well foresee. But however it ends, the parties who
are concerned for our foundation, and have hitherto their
successional right acknowledged, will have a full and feeling
proof of those men and of those principles which have brought
us into this condition.
I should dare go no further had I strength. So you shall
have no more from me at present, but my sincere respects, good
wishes, and all that must naturally come from one who is so
much as I am your faithful humble servant.
P.S. — You have many returns of thanks from Lady Shaftes-
bury for your remembrances to her and mention of Lord Ashley.
I can assure you she partakes so much with me in the present
calamities of the public, that she yesterday, on the opening
of the letters, applied herself with concern to the public news
before she would open her private letters, which, however,
brought her afterwards the comfort of hearing that our young
gentleman and friends were all well. We both desire to present
our humble services to Colonel Molesworth.
[Address :] To Mr. Molesworth at Florence.
510 Letters.
TO SIB JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the 9th of August, 1712.
SIK JOHN, — The enclosed (as you will soon perceive) is for
cousin Mick, to whom and to sister Nanny (who both receive
letters from us by this post) I refer you for what relates to us
and our concerns ; wishing you health, your little charge life
and honesty, and our country a name and being, which it may
soon lose, as things now appear to me, who never before saw
them (as you well know) in a melancholy view.
But I have sealed my lips and chained my pen. I hope at
the same time I shall not be personally ill-used, but undergo
only the common fate, not of Whigs I mean (for I have long
been out of parties), but of Englishmen. Nor did I find even in
France that my honest confession of my having been no French
man, whilst I was able to act in affairs, was any shame or injury
to me even with the Ministers themselves, whose generosity I
ought to acknowledge on the account of the great civility and
assistance afforded me in my passage through their country.
Glad I am, notwithstanding, that I came hither, over the
mountains, though to die here, rather than to have lived there at
this time, and spared myself that finishing blow to my ruined
health and constitution.
Amidst all you see, I can keep up my spirits as far as they
relate to thought and humour. Witness these enclosed instruc
tions for cousin Mick, and the other virtuoso-packet belonging
to these instructions, which comes this post in a separate letter
to him. Farewell. Dues to all, &c.
TO BENJAMIN FURLY.
NAPLES, the 9th of August, 1712.
Uncomfortable as things are, and great as the shame and
misery is of our poor nation in particular, I must, however, most
kindly acknowledge the comfort I receive in hearing from you
of news and public affairs, which, though but in a line or two
(without over-fatiguing yourself), is of high satisfaction to me.
For what greater can I have in these calamities than to hear
Letters. 511
them by a friend with whom I have jointly spent my life in
labouring for the public, and by personal action, advice, study,
thought, and the employment of almost all the hours of my life,
endeavouring to serve that country and common cause1 which
we now see sinking, if Providence does not wonderfully
support the many noble spirits which appear in Holland, and
the few which remain in our native country.
Much I rejoice to hear of the increase of your family,
though in the female sex ; and heartily congratulate with your
self and Mr. Benjohii for so excellent a daughter-in-law, wife,
and nurse.
I was glad to receive the blank letter forwarded in your
last of July the 15th by the extraordinary conveyance according
to the directions formerly given you, but must desire you to
superscribe the blank letter which you thus enclose to the great
person here. Otherwise it cannot but happen, as has already
done, that the seals also of the inward letter must be broken
open, there being no superscription or mark to distinguish it.
Please, therefore, to superscribe the inward letter directly, A
Monsieur, Monsieur le Comte de Shaftesbury : for it is only
between England and you I need be nice as to my name. Yet I
cannot but wonder at what you write me (if I understand it
well) concerning a letter of mine coming to you with wax and
no impression ; for I am careful to use always a fine seal, and
that nice way of impression in little, which is of the best sort,
and was Mr. Locke's way, as it is now Mr. Micklethwayte's and
mine, who seldom, either of us, seal with a whole seal, which is
more easily taken off, and set on again without discovery.
[Address:] To Mr. Furly, at Rotterdam.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, the 30th of August, 1712.
If by some experience in the world, some pains and study,
and now last of all by retirement and the free exercise of my
thought, I had not learned at least some sort of philosophy
1 The alliance against Louis XI V., from which England had now
withdrawn, in view of the approaching peace.
512 Letters.
and command over my own temper, I could not even with the
best health and strength propose to myself to write with any
tolerable ease, though to a friend such as yourself, at a time when
all things went so ill abroad and public news, which of late
years have been so bright and promising, are now grown so dark,
and (as you justly represent) in every respect so melancholy and
ill-boding.
It may, perhaps, be only a sort of despair which may render
one however thus easy as I now am, when I not only see that I
am myself precluded from being any way assistant in affairs ;
but when in reality they are become so desperate that I can
foresee no possibility of a remedy but from mere Providence
itself.
We are now at the mercy of one single man1, who has all
power in his hands, and every secret in his breast. How
Providence may dispose that heart I know not. He has a head,
indeed, but too able. Nor have we had (in my opinion) a genius
equal to oppose to him, besides one whom at last I hear we are
likely to lose, and whom the public prints and private accounts
have given us for dead, or in a languishing state past recovery.
And of this person, I remember, I wrote my mind to you at the
beginning of the year, on the first struggle we made when the
ever memorable memoria (that of Hanover) appeared.
The world does not often produce real able statesmen. And
when it does, there are often great alloys in their character.
Our Whig party, I fear, will soon be a rope of sand. The two
noble lords and worthy Ministers lately fallen were many years
together labouring to break that Whig interest which they now
want. The nation, I believe, will be no more endangered from
what was called a Whig cabal. And we shall only have such
quarter from the opposite party as the superior genius who
controls and manages them thinks fit by his interposition to
afford us. He carries all before him. And were I disposed to
rail at him (as from his schemes, perhaps, I may be), yet should
I hardly think it prudent, even for my country's sake, which
lies so wholly in his hands.
1 Probably reference is here made to Robert Harley,
Earl of Oxford.
Letters. 513
You may ask me, perhaps, as a friend, what should one do
in such a case ? especially one who is a Minister abroad, and per
sonates a Ministry such as it now stands at home ? — The question,
I confess, is hard to answer. I myself, as private as I am, and
out of any public character whatsoever, were I able to go
abroad, should scarce know how to demean myself, or what
countenance to show. Whoever I met concerned on either
side in the affairs of Europe, were he a man of sense and
spirit, I could scarcely look him in the face. If an ally,
what just reproach ! — If a neutral, what censure ! What
amazement ! — If a Frenchman (for this is of all the
rest most cruel and hard to bear), what grimace !
what half -smiles, feigned compliments, and abusive con
gratulations ! — " Where are now these English ! those
high spirits ! those pushing Ministers, generals, parliaments,
people ! "
Do not, I entreat you, imagine that my meaning is by this
to dishearten you from continuing your present public station,
from whence, should you at this juncture make yourself be
recalled, I am afraid you would do your country and family
but ill service. Were it my own case, I will tell you truly how
I would do. I would neither act so as to offend the present
Ministry and be recalled, to solicit, perhaps, all my life after
wards for my arrears, nor would I act so much to the honour
of my own Court and nation as to increase those arrears by
my expenses in their behalf or for their credit. On the contrary,
since their honour stood as it did, I should think I did them best
service by hiding myself and keeping private as a mourner.
I should think it even a merit to take shame to myself in
my. country's case and bear my part in that disgrace it had
deserved. Since I could no way make that figure I ought to
do, I would resolve to make none at all, but turn economist
with all my might. By this means I would soon have the better
end of the staff, and make myself be recalled (if in time I
should stand so inclined) upon better terms for myself, and
with less dependency upon those whose candour I should
never count on, and to whose friendship I should unwillingly
consent to owe any part of my own or family interest or
fortune.
LL
514 Letters.
* Looking back on what I have here dictated, I cannot but
wonder at myself, how I have run out and given you so long
a trouble upon little or no subject. It is a sign that the summer
warmth has restored me at least some kind of strength, which
I am willing you should have the first fruits of, though ever
so coarse and ordinary. Lady Shaftesbury, who joins with me in
humble services to you, returns many thanks for your notice
of Lord Ashley, who continues prosperous. — I am, dear sir,
your very sincere friend and humble servant.
[Address :] To Mr. Molesworth, at Florence.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, August 30th, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — I had none from you this last post. Your
last was of July the llth with Mick. Ainsworth's letter. Pray
return a favourable answer upon the refusal, and enquire all you
can about his character. For I am in great fear for him, and
may soon be put to resolve about him in some other case that
may happen.
You have two copies enclosed, the first of which to Sir John
I entreat you would immediately communicate to Mr. Hooper,
in case Sir John happens to be out of town, and that my letters
of last post should have miscarried or delayed.
The other j1 copy is of what you engaged me to write, and
what I would never have written to any one in the world but at
your entreaty, and on the account of the obligation you have
(and I with you) to the father of this unadvised young gentle
man. — Am I, then, to give advice ? Am I to be the monitor and
preceptor ? Am I to thrust myself thus between father1 and son2,
in private family matters and in public concerns, in which letter,
* The rest in my own hand.
f See the letter immediately preceding this [viz., a letter to Mr.
Molesworth on politics, dated 30th August].
1 Robert Molesworth. 2 John Molesworth, son of Robert.
Letters. 515
if I am driven to speak my mind, I am necessitated to speak
more than will be liked. And this I must do. Therefore, 'twere
far better I were let be silent. — Nor will I hereafter engage in
such complicated affair. For as to the public, my scene of action
being now over, I will here take my leave of such matters. And
(as I have before written you) unless I am urged by personal
provocation so as to be in a manner colled and summoned to it,
I will venture to say this is the last formal letter on politics
which I shall ever write. But for this young gentleman (to
whom I so heartily wish well), his politics as well as his
economics run, it seems, at a strange rate. He shows sufficient
discontent towards the best, the worthiest, and ablest of that
party which is now undermost, and at the same time (as I find,
too, by yours) can hardly be brought to keep measures with
those who rule. For my own part, as little as I should have
liked Pompey and his Junto, I should have heartily sided with
him, though there had been no Cato in the case. Catos, God
knows, we have none. No, nor yet Pompeys. But setting aside
the soldier character (for it is of the statesman alone that I am
speaking), I should hardly be so unwise as to desert Pompey and
rail at Caesar. So far from it that, as the event has shown, it
had been better to have committed all to Caesar, when the only
heads who were a match for him were taken out of his way. —
Now pray hearken but to the conduct of this gentleman. He
has not only sent both news and pamphlets of a certain kind to
those who will certainly never keep his secret, but has referred
the very same persons to me for things of the same nature
communicated by himself. So that were I incautious this would
be a fine manner of engaging me, as they say, over boots and
shoes. Excellent prudence ! Rare discretion !
This (dear couz.), this is the conduct which I thoroughly
condemn, and would wish you to avoid. But never so as to
relax it in other respects, or grow short in zeal and affection for
old friends ; never so as to suffer those to grow little in our eyes
who were once so great, because then in power.
The man who now rules all was for many years as great a
man in my eyes as now, with all his outward greatness. And
should his turn come to fall he would find that it was more
natural and easy to me to express my friendship for him (as I
516 Letters.
have done before) when he was abandoned and persecuted, than
when he governed all without control.
Let me tell you, dear couz., as long as you have been
acquainted with me (both Sir John and you), I have reason to
fear you know me little. It is not your understanding I accuse.
Nor do I think my friend Sir John is wanting in what the world
calls ability. But the world is a fine world, I don't say an
honest one. I am out of it. I am far off. Nor do I say I
think myself out of mind or forgot, but I begin, I fear, to be
less and less known by you, as I have been long out of your
converse : otherwise my sense in my many late letters would be
better taken, and pursued with more confidence and trust. But
enough. — Now to virtuoso-matters and my amusements where I
am.
I wrote you word last post in mine of the 23rd of August,
that the little picture of Hercules was coming to you by the
Liberty, Captain Haughton commander, who touches at Deal or
Dover, where some of your officers or correspondents may, by
advice from you, receive it, and take due care, it being so tender
a thing. With it I send you a letter, in which I shall give you
a particular account of it. It is such a sort of copy (if it may
be so called) as has perhaps exceeded the original. 'Twas done
almost wholly in my presence, and twice done over as anew to
bring it to its present perfection. I have already paid the
artist above his hundred ducats (or twenty pounds sterling) first
agreed on. But let not this alarm Sir John. The picture, if he
pleases, shall be mine, notwithstanding I have the great one.
Nor shall Sir John exceed his hundred or hundred and twenty
pounds in all. I little dreamt he would have retracted the least
from his two hundred pound commission given me by word of
mouth in England. I have launched out indeed pretty deep,
and am engaged at least a hundred pound over, besides my
great piece (which is a hundred more), and I may say again
almost another hundred in charge of entertainment and rewards
to painters, agents, emissaries, and in correspondences kept up
wholly on this account, except only what concerns the little
works done for Characteristicks, which I in a manner myself
designed, and drew ; the rest by my draughtsman being but slight
work, and what I could have had done for little by any other.
Letters. 517
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the llth of October, 1712.
SIR JOHN, — . . . . It is the same discouragement has
turned me from the thought I had of writing to Mr. Stanhope
on his safe arrival.1 You may guess how great a loss I count
that of his letter by the poor servant, who by your account
should seem to have been lost with it. The polite French can
be barbarians enough in such cases as these, and give no quarter
or so much as a hearing where the least jealousy is conceived.
I have a great deal upon my mind which I could wish you to
say from me to Mr. Stanhope concerning my honour and love
for him. But as he cannot doubt of his having what is due
from me of that kind, whatever there may be extraordinary,
I am well enough contented to let sleep, desiring only you would
do me justice as his friend and one who claims that name in
common with yourself. For my own part, I cannot live to act
for him as I once hoped to do. I had but little strength left
when I received the first news of his misfortune. After that I
had neither power nor means to accomplish my ambitious
schemes, if I may call that ambition which had alone in view
the raising of another. My own time was already over. Dis
tempers had barred that door, and whatever thoughts I had
of greatness, they could run no further than the vanity of
contributing towards making him great in the world whom I
thought most so in himself. Had I not secretly entertained
this ambition, I should hardly have been pushed to make the
last vain struggle on our new Parliament. Had that and the
dismal news from our friend in Spain arrived but about a year
sooner, the Kensington youngster2 had never been thought of.
Nor is it so comfortable a thought to have a posterity, as affairs
seem now to tend. A philosopher (as you call me) need not
have married for his country's sake on such a prospect. But
you were willing I should do what I could to preserve my life,
and it is preserved indeed, but by such pains and labour as it is
1 General Stanhope arrived in England on 16th May, 1712, having
been a prisoner at Saragossa, in Spain, for nearly two years.
2 Young Lord Ashley.
518 Letters.
hardly worth ; not my own pains (for I could never bestow them
so), but by my partner's, and such a tender care, such an ability
and affection, as hardly I believe is equalled.
Meanwhile, if I have been able to write anything which
such a judge as Mr. Stanhope thinks may be of use to mankind
or my countrymen in this or in the next age, you may be sure
I think it a happiness. But as for my attempting such subjects
anew, or offering to write or dictate on anything beyond virtuoso
matters, my cousin Mick and you have very ill interpreted my
letters to raise such an imagination. Though, if others please
to imagine so, there is no harm either for him or you. And as
I once told my cousin Mick very emphatically (hoping he
would have remembered), 'tis easier to write CHARACTERS
than CHAR KS. But you laugh at this, and say mankind are
hardened and value not their fame, present or future. I differ
from you in opinion, and think no passion stronger than this,
even in our present great men on both sides. But it shall be
as you desire. You see quick and understand me. I say no
more. My arms and weapons shall sound no longer. I have
dunned your ears too much about them, especially in my late
letters to cousin Mick. He shall have quarter as well as you
for the future. My trifles of virtuosoship are all I shall enter
tain you with, and if this prove not entertaining or profiting
I have nothing further. My fables of this kind carry (I should
hope) some little moral along with them. The mighty treatises
which you seem to think me intent upon (according to report
from couz. Mick) are barely two such poor tracts as the LETTER
and NOTION already sent through your hands to our old lord.
Nor have I yet set pen to paper or dictated one word on either
of these intended pieces, only noted a few memorandums,1
that if I should live over the winter I might employ myself
a little during the summer following.
Here is a full and true account of my personal state and
affairs; as to the crazy part and stories of my sickness and
remedy, I leave my poor spouse to write of that, as she naturally
1 Shaftesbury's " Notebook on art painting, ancient and modern
masters and works, taste," &c., Naples, 1712, evidently designed as
the basis for a treatise, is among his MSS. in the Record Office.
Letters. 519
does and will do always to her sister, or when she writes to you
herself. I am weary and spent with what I have done ; so with
usual affection and wishes adieu, adieu.
Pray let Mick read what I say. I have at last, after about
a month's silence, heard from him, having received his of the
29th of July, with the enclosed remarks [viz., Mr. D — yl first
corrections].
TO BENJAMIN FURLY.
NAPLES, the 18th of October, 1712.
The account you write me of the young man who calls
your old friend W. P. uncle, is very amazing. But the most
mournful news is what you write me of your great city, which
seems to submit. If so, what becomes of Europe, the English
Protestant succession, and themselves, who will rather be the
first than last devoured ?
What a certain friend of yours has written you of things
being dark is true indeed. But who has helped to breed that
darkness ? Who more than himself ? I own the ill-usage he
once received : and myself resented his ill-treatment more
perhaps than any friend he had. But was it right to sacrifice
all to his revenge ? Nothing was ever darker or blacker than
his conduct.
* Again and again I beg and entreat you, beware. You
have many seeming obligations and inviting circumstances, which
may draw you to openness and trust. But if you are drawn
into it there are many reasons which make it too certain that
you will afterwards have cause to be sorry for it. Were it for
nothing else but that your English correspondence might not
be discovered and interrupted. For as to Holland and our
friends there, never have they had or can have a closer, bitterer
enemy, as his interest now stands, and as his passions have
wrought him up. Neither is there one good or sound man of
note in England, to whom he is not now a direct enemy. Nor
can he ever be trusted should any change happen in favour
of that common cause, to the destruction of which he has for
* From hence in my own hand.
520 Letters.
these two last years employed his whole credit and power;
whatever his former merit entitled him to. His art and abilities
are great. But I entreat you remember.
My kind services to all yours, from him who is as ever, &c.
Pray burn this as soon as you have read it. I should write
thus to no one besides yourself.
[Address:] To Mr. Benjamin Furly, at Rotterdam.
TO JOHN MOLESWORTH.
NAPLES, the 25th of October, 1712.
SIR, — Amongst the many happinesses which heaven has
afforded to mankind on no other condition, nor by other means
than that of liberty alone, we ought, I think, to esteem friend
ship as the most considerable. I know very well it must be
thought hard to deny private friendship to those of a slavish
education who prefer private will to public interest and
prosperity. But the consequence is inevitable. They who give
the public a master, and are willing to serve in common, are
impotent in society, and insensible of common good. I can allow
strong sympathies and fondnesses to animals, Moors, Persians,
and Frenchmen. The gallantries and loves so highly celebrated
among these latter I can easily resign to them. But for friend
ship it has a nature too liberal and just to lodge with a slavish
mind, which has either never known, or has apostatised from the
principle of common good and public weal. Far different from
this latter is the friendship with which you honour me. I have,
indeed, pleaded my title, and in my former letters laid claim to
it, as descending justly upon me from that genuine friendship of
a truly free character which I contracted with your worthy
father1, when you were yet not old enough to distinguish
between good and evil, liberty or arbitrary power. But you
have now by several ways so ratified and confirmed your relation
to me in this kind that it is become wholly original and your
own proper gift. Had it not been for this freedom and the
privilege which such a principle bestows, how could I have
1 Robert Molesworth.
Letters. 521
ventured to appear so pedantic as in my last letter of advice ?
And how could this advice, such as it was in its own nature,
have been accepted by you with so much favour and indulgence,
had not that principle borne me out, which is so well fixed in
you, and upon which the moral of my letter wholly turned ?
If young men of generous spirits, who have fortune at command,
and can be either men of pleasure or men of figure, can at the
same time have such a command over themselves as upon
occasion to live privately and reduce expenses, they are beyond
the power of corruption, and can serve their princes (as long as
they are suffered) with satisfaction and security. And were it
not that Courts and public stations are apt to make impressions
very contrary to what I have suggested, I could heartily wish
that many honest men would be more courteous than they are,
and more willing both to accept of favours and live in all decency
and compliance even under Courts and Ministries which were not
the very soundest one could wish. How soon else should we
lose the usefullest of men in every remote station of the public ?
Let those look to it who have the high steerage. Were I a mate
or inferior officer at sea, I would mind my particular business in
the vessel whilst I was left in it. And if I was commanded on
no duty should not be ashamed of standing idle, whilst I was
still in readiness to act.
As distant as I am from you, it would, methinks, be a kind
of separation, should you return to England. And I might, per
haps, be questioned whether self love had not some share in my
willingness to keep you in the post you hold. But be this as to
your mind and circumstances is most suitable. The times are
coming when we must either sink altogether, or a great change
happen in the course of things. Meanwhile I have only the
receiver's part in what relates to news and intelligence of what
is like to become of us. I have nothing but my line or two of
dry morals in return, with a good wish, a condolence, a con
gratulation, or somewhat of this kind. The continuance of my
weak state leaves me little more to do in the world, and only
affords a good lady the means of showing herself very good.
For it is by mere nursing that I live. The youngster I owe to
her, and whom you kindly inquire of, continues strong and
sprightly, as we hear every post from England. I beg my kind
522 Letters.
remembrances and services to all yours. You have the good
lady's, and I am myself, dear sir, affectionately yours.
P.S. — We need be in no fear for our friend Stanhope, whom
the honest news-writers, and many on this side the water, give
for gone, because of his gracious reception. He is gone a
progress : beginning at Bell-Bar, thence to St. Albans, and after
wards as far north as Chatsworth, and returns by Rainham,
which is my good Lord Townshend's seat in Norfolk. I doubt
not but he will meet other good friends, besides the owners of
the houses.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, the 22nd of November, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — When you have considered all, and have
looked back upon what is passed, you may be convinced, perhaps,
that my plain, friendly, and bold ways are the best, at least
for my practice and my character. Every man in his humour
Nor are my humours, as you will find, so contemptible ; my mere
humours. Even when I play only, and divert myself with
writing, so vain am I grown (by my friend Stanhope's applause),
notwithstanding Sir John's mortifying me by saying how little
pen-work signified, and how little my author-character would
avail me in other interests or affairs. " For who among the
great ever valued their fame now -a -days? Who minded
characters ? " &c. But for whom is it (dear cousin) that I intend
all this ? Why would I be thus taken notice of ? Do I want
court favour, or popular applause? — You have not surely lost
the clue I gave you. Notwithstanding your long silence, I hope
you have put things together, and made something out of my
many long letters yet unanswered. Methinks the engines work
well : the instruments do theirs. The Gribelins and the rest of
that kind, by your help, make a good under-plot (would I could
see the finished prints as promised before this), and virtuosoship,
methinks, plays its part very aptly, and in good tune. The way
lies fair. You have scope for improvement of what is begun.
You will find me forward enough upon encouragement, if my
prospect hold of getting over another winter: which as yet
has come on so wonderfully favourably and mild (excepting a
Letters. 523
day or two the last week), that I have had thus far the full
advantage of a continued summer. And by this and the course
of medicines still used, I am able to hold up, and move out of
my bed and chair, though not out of my chamber. — Adieu, dear
couz.
TO PIERRE COSTE.
NAPLES, the 22nd of November, 1712.
MR. COSTE, — With extreme satisfaction I have just now
received yours of October 21st from the Hague with the account
of your and Sir John Hobart's reception and entertainment at
Hanover ; the honour done to myself in particular by the notice
taken of me (which I hope you will take care on occasion
sincerely to express in rny behalf), and with the three exemplars
of the little dissertation1 in which your admirable judgment
and care has made me not a little proud. So that I am in a
manner resolved to naturalise it myself and give it to the public
Englished at first hand, rather than suffer it to go to Grub Street
by help of those Anglo-Gallish translators who generally under
stand neither the one language nor the other.
But my concern is that in this letter of yours, in which
you speak of your sudden journey to France (from whence
God send you safe), you say nothing how my letters should
be directed to you, or what time you are to stay there, having
in your letter before given me hope that we should see you
here by Christmas. Now should that not happen until a month
or two after it would still be vain for me to hope an answer
even to this letter, which going round by Germany will be a
month ere it reaches you, though you should still be in Holland,
from whence, according to yours, you should be already parted
this day, for your letter has been just a month in coming to
me, and you say that within a month you are to set out for
Paris, having your passport.
How shall I send you therefore my answer concerning the
intended quarto edition and the plate proposed ? And what
encouragement have I (who am so weak in writing in my own
JThe "Judgment of Hercules" in its original French form.
524 Letters.
hand) to write to you as I would intimately to a friend on these
and other subjects ? The loss of a letter would go deep with
me. And I have lost several which I have written to France
and which have been written to me from thence. What shall
I do till I hear again from you ?
My recovery (if I may call it such) is so slow that I have
been few days out of my house even in this fine summer past.
And I am now confined to my chamber. But even this is so much
better than what was expected in my case, that my spouse and
friends are very joyful at it. She in particular sends you her
thanks for your kind remembrances, and is herself (she says)
self-interested in you as Lord Ashley's future guide and
governor.
I beg the return of my humble services to Sir John Hobart1,
and that you would always believe me your constant and faith
ful friend.
P.S. — It would be a great pleasure to hear from you now
and then, though it were but a line or two from any place in
your travels, particularly from Paris and about your friend the
Abbe Bignon, of whose politeness I have an high idea, and if he
be as good a friend as he is a candid and able critic, I shall be
glad for your sake in several respects. I would be glad to know
how he happens to like the " Judgment of Hercules." I regret
nothing I lost at Paris but the not seeing Abbe Bignon and
Madame Dacier, which my ill-health prevented.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the 22nd of November, 1712 [N.S.]
To SIR JOHN, — I am forced to look upon myself at present
as in a manner cut off from your correspondence. The post
before this last, which brought other people their letters of the
7th October from England brought us not a single line ; and
this post, by which letters were so earnestly expected, has
brought only an account from Holland that the mail, though
John Hobart, first Earl of Buckinghamshire (1 694 1— 1756),
son of Sir Henry Hobart. See page
Letters. 525
the wind had been long fair, was not yet arrived, which caused
many surmises.
Meanwhile, as my far distance and sickly circumstances
allay in me all thoughts which might arise on politics and the
great turns of State, I easily suspend all reflections. And in
this interval shall entertain you only as usually with the
amusements of my infirm and painful state of life, which
I render this way as cheerful, or at least as easy and
tolerable as I well can. But pray see ! if amidst all I
have not subject enough for vanity ? For as useless as
I may seem grown of late, I have the fortune to gain the
consideration and regard of such a part of the world as I
could little expect. You will already perhaps have been
surprised, as I myself was the other day, by the prose draught
of our young Hercules1 in the Paris journals printed at Amster
dam. It was no secret indeed, nor could possibly be made one,
having been written for the painter's use, and consequently
known to the virtuosi here, before you saw it in English. And
you may be sure I could not be so conceited as to think I had
written it in French in such a manner as not to need correction
in the style by a real master in that language. So to our
friend Monsieur Coste I sent it without scruple or mystery, and
with full liberty to do with it as he thought fit. And see ! his
answer as I have this post received it from the Hague, omitting
other particulars of his return thither from Hanover, &c.
"... J'ai passe le temps avec beaucoup d'agrement dans
cette cour. La Princesse Sophie m'a fait des honnetetes a
quoi je ne 'm attendaes point ; et je fus tres bien regu de madame
la princesse electorale. Elles m'ont parle souvent de vous avec
des sentments d'une estime toute particuliere. Madame la
princesse electorale en particulier qui sgut que j'avais 1'honneur
d'etre en commerce de lettres avec vous, me charges expressement
de vous temoigner de sa port la consideration qu'elle a pour vous.
Elle savait que j'avais traduit 1'Essai sur la raillerie, et me dit
beaucoup de bien de cet ouvrage. Elle croyoit que j'avais traduit
la Lettre sur 1'Enthousiasme, et un jour que je n'etais pas a la
cour elle le disait positivement en presence de Monsieur le
1(rhe French original of the "Judgment of Hercules."
526 Letters.
Chevalier Hobart qui savait le contraire, et qui lui repliqua
civilement qu'elle pourrait bien sa meprendre. Le lendemain
jallai a la cour ; et devant plusieurs personnes, elle me somma de
lui avoner que j'avais traduit cette Lettre aussi bien que 1'Essai,
&c. Elle jouait au piquet, et comme elle devait bientdt quitter les
cartes pour se promener dans la chambre, ja lui dis que dans un
moment je la convaimcrais invinciblement que je n'avais point
traduit la Lettre sur 1'Enthousiasme. En effet des qu'elle fut
levee, elle me fit connoitre qu'elle etait bien aise que je 1'abordasse,
et alors je lui dis que j'etais si eloigne d'avoir traduit cette piece,
que je songeais a la traduire tout de nouveau. Elle m' exhorta a
le faire, parce que je lui dis que le premier traducteur a mal
represente la pensee de 1'auteur en plusieurs endroits. Sur cela
elle me fit connaitre que elle serait bien aise de lire 1' Original en
attendant ma traduction, et le meme jour je lui envoyai la,
Lettre en anglais, qu'ella me rendait deux jours apres. Elle la
loua publiquement comme une excellente piece, ou elle ne trouvait
rein a reprendre, excepte une petite reflexion sur les premiers
predicateurs de 1'Evangile qui lui paraissoit un peu gaillarde,
quoiqu' innocente dans le fond. II m' echappa dans une autre
conversation de lui parler de la dissertation surle jugement
d'Hercule. Elle me te"moigna d'abord une grande envie de la
lire, &c.
" Je ne vous diron plus rien aujourd'hui parceque je ne veux
pas manquer cette poste. J'ajouterais seulement que devant
rester encore un mois a la Haye ou je suis presentement, je
pourrais profiter de vos corrections pour faire riemprimer votre
dissertation en plus gros caractere in 4to avec une estampe ou
serait represents le tableau de la mainere qu'il a ete execute" a
Naples."
Now pray tell me which had I best resolve to do ? Whether
leave it to the Grub Street translators and retailers to vend in
their own guise, or whether produce the original translation
(if I may so call it) by itself alone, without that which I count
the spirit and life of it, I mean the recommendatory letter1 to my
1 Shaftesbury's suggestion for an issue of the " Judgment of
Hercules " and the " Letter concerning Design " combined was never
carried out.
Letters. 527
friend-lord, whose property this is, and to whom it is my chief
delight to join myself, in these as in former thoughts and con
templations of my retired and leisure hours.
For my own part, should that lord approve the thing, I am
resolute enough to send both Letter and Notion without more ado
to Darby (suppressing names only), to be printed in the very
same manner and character as the " Letter of Enthusiasm " was.
And to that end I will in a post or two send you a title page for
him, with the few corrections I may think proper to make. So
that if it be thought right you may proceed ; if not, the pains
will be no loss to me. I can only add in my own hand that I
am, as ever, affectionately yours.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, the 20th of December, 1712.
DEAR COUSIN, — I have my pen in my hand once again,
though I have reason to say for the last time, expecting in a few
days to be dismissed by nature, and released from the pains and
agonies I endure. For I endure the severest whilst I strive
with my disease, and use the utmost efforts as if I were even a
coward, to save myself at the entreaty and for sake of my poor
deserving spouse, whose goodness and piety, however, is such
that I trust in God she is prepared to resign me, and act as
becomes her.* Comfort Sir John all you can. You are a man
in these cases. Sir John is hardly so, through passionate concern
for me. Let Mr. Stanhope know my love for him. You know
it well, how long it has been such as to deserve his acceptance
of the trust and charge I leave him of my family and little one.
My other offspring1 is wholly your trust and charge. You drew
me on by kind solicitations and earnest entreaties to engage in
these ornaments. And I hope you will not leave me or slacken
your own zeal after having moved mine, so effectually as you
* Thus far my Lord in his own hand : the rest in the tran
scriber's.
1 The Characteristics, the second edition of which was brought out
shortly after his death.
528 Letters.
will see, by the elaborate papers, instructions, corrections, and
six treatise draughts sent by Bryan Wheelock, who is on his
way for England.
The nearer I am to my end, and the greater my pains and
agonies, the more comfortable it is in my intervals to hear news
from you, so that I hope you will not abandon me, but write on
to the last until you receive news, not by report but from my
own house, that I am actually gone. For yesterday, when,
together with Sir John's two letters, I received your full and
particular one of the last of October, you cannot imagine how
agreeable it was to me. And having made Mr. Crell look over
Mr. D — y's1 corrections of second volume, he finds them almost
every one ready done to hand in that remaining copy of second
volume, which I have here with me, and is to follow the first
and third which are coming to you by Bryan Wheelock. This
completes the set of originals from whence you are to print.
But there being no haste, it seems, in this impression, I join
with you in opinion for instantly printing the " Judgment
of Hercules,"2 &c., as I wrote to you and Sir John just
before I fell ill, and having presently made my plan you
will receive it from Mr. Crell transcribed by the next post
that Mr. D — y may instantly proceed. One reflection I
have to leave with you concerning the artful gentleman
Mr. D — y, and I hope you will not forget it. Let not
the plates be entrusted out of sight, but in a faithful hand
to be present while the eight hundred or thousand are
passing under the rolling-press. For if he has a mind to
print several hundred more he may, but without the
devices.. For I would never consent wholly to spend and
wear out the beauty of my plates in one impression. Besides
that the gentleman will by this means be kept more
under subjection. The plates remaining good still, and safe
in your hands.
1Mr. Darby, the printer.
2 Shaftesbury's "Notion of the Historical Draught or Tablature of
the Judgment of Hercules " [London], 1713. Cf. Br. Mus., 527, K.
13 (2).
Letters. 529
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, the 21th of December, 1712.
As desperate as I am in my condition, I am as good as my
word in sending you* what I promised.
Pray forsake me not, but write and act to the last, this
last letter of yours, with the three little volume plates and
Mr. D — y's third corrections, having been highly pleasant to
me and the greatest refreshment. Mr. Gribelin and you have
done wonders. Farewell. Sir John and you will hear the rest
by my sister Nanny. Last dues and love to Mr. Stanhope,
recommending to him Lord Ashley, &c., and all what relates
to me with his and our friend Sir John. Adieu.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
NAPLES, the 3rd of January, 1713.
DEAR COUSIN, — The more painful my hours grow and the
fewer I have to expect in life, the faster you see I ply you
(and shall continue to do so) with what alone can give me
amusement and at the same time advance the principal good
which I shall leave behind me, my brain-offspring, so likely to
make its way, espoused and honoured as it now is by such
judgments and friends appearing in its behalf.
With speed, therefore, my dear cousin, you will, I hope,
transmit to me the proofs as I have desired upon the models
and instructions here enclosed for Mr. Gribelin and Darby,
whom it will be your concern to animate and unite on this
occasion.
For Mr. Gribelin's encouragement I give you liberty to
tell him I am so highly satisfied with his masterly execution
of the designs, and of his capacity of carrying his hand yet
higher, that for six treatise-plates to come (which will be in
a manner but half-labour in comparison with three volume-
plates already performed) I am willing to give the same sum
* Instructions and scheme for the "Judgment of Hercules," of
which a duplicate was put in silk pouch of virtuoso copybook.
MM
530 Letters.
which you write me word you had already given him, viz.,
six pound each plate.
I trust you will not only animate and urge the two artists,
but raise the zeal of my two agents, the Wheelocks,1 by making
them sensible (as they cannot be without you) of the importance
of the work in which they may be greatly serviceable, the elder
in helping you to bear hard upon D — y and keeping him to
strict performance; the other by going often between and
helping as a sort of corrector when the work comes on, as
I hope it will instantly now the new year is come, and that
you will so soon receive by him (the younger) the corrected
volumes, and after this the additional corrections which I have
now completed since Mr. D — y's last received from you.
Having completed also (and here enclosed) my figures of
reference from the several devices, you cannot be at a loss
to know their meaning, from the printed pages to which they
refer and from the manuscript instructions which you have
by you.
The FEL. TEM. of the first volume-plate (which is all
happiness from the right balance, liberty, and ancient model
of religion) is a noted medal-inscription for felicitas temporum
or felicia tempora.
The EN QUO of the last volume-plate (which on the other side
is all misery and the modern model) is a poetical ejaculation, as
much as to say, " Behold ! whither we are brought ? to what
state reduced ?"
There is hardly the least room for criticism on Mr. Gribelin's
performance, except in the right-hand corner of third volume-
plate, where the just balance and proper harmony of light and
shade is somewhat impaired by the over-blackness of the palm
tree and river-god, whose crocodile, too, might be a little more
enlivened and of a more squat shape, not so high-backed. But
pray take care of hurt in touching this. As for the uneven
standing of the niche or tribunal, and sitting magistrate between
the two ovals of first volume-plate ; the matter is not great, nor
worth regretting. I could have wished that the sheaf of corn,
which is between JEsculapius's rod and bottle with bubbles in
aJohn Wheelock and his nephew, Bryan.
Letters. 531
the upper part of the same first volume-plate, had been neater
and shorter-eared, so as not to have appeared so gigantic in
respect of its distance.
If a little of the darkness of the upper oval of second
volume-plate (viz., the land and sky in the perspective with the
herd, flock, and fleet) were also taken off, the balance and
harmony mentioned would be preserved still more beautiful.
Nothing could be more agreeable to my condition and last
minutes than this little imagery, considering the main reference
and end.
Adieu, dear cousin. Do for me as you think I have
deserved, or may deserve, from you or mankind.
TO SIR JOHN CROPLEY.
NAPLES, the Wth of January, 1713.
SIR JOHN, — I had no heart to dictate to you (knowing your
passionate concern for me) whilst I had no prospect of life so
much as from day to day. What remains you will hear by my
wife to her sister Nanny. Meanwhile I hope you will not
abandon me, but write to the very last of all particulars, public
and private, as you have so kindly done hitherto.
Cousin Mick has heard largely from me by both last posts,
as I was able by intervals to dictate to Mr. Crell relating to my
author-capacity, which I hope you will not contemn, nor he
neglect, who has so much forwarded it, and in a manner forced
me on my late virtuoso undertakings which he has in his hands.
My bodily offspring (the little one) is that in which I doubt
not of all your assistances and cares after I am gone. But of
my brain-offspring I doubt much. Though, methinks, it should
be sufficiently rated by you and cousin Mick, since on the
strength of it, and by its sole merit, I can have the boldness to
claim of our worthy friend Stanhope the acceptance of the
joint-charge, trust, and care of little one and my affairs after me.
To this last article you have never answered me, but
remember that if I live long enough to receive an answer to this
letter, how great a comfort and satisfaction it will be to hear by
you from Mr. Stanhope that he kindly accepts of this trust
532 Letters.
recommended to him from a friend, who so truly loves and
honours him.
One thing I have to intreat of you in behalf of Bryan
Wheelock, who may suffer by being stopped in his way either
by the sickness or quarantine, with which we are just alarmed
from the Venetian and German territories where he passed
about the middle of last month, finding no passage yet settled
through France, nor company or party to join with. Now
would you apply beforehand to superiors representing the case,
he might escape being turned out should he fail a day or two in
the time allowed him, since he took above three months' time to
come with all diligence from me to his office as required. His
going has been and is a great cause of sufferance to me, and par
ticularly to my poor wife, having no one in my chamber fit to
assist me in my sad state. And I must own Wheelock's affection
to have shown itself very sincerely in despatching John Howard
to me, whose arrival I now expect with earnest desire, as you
may be sure my poor wife has reason to do, knowing his
strength and handiness about me and fitness to assist in my
chamber, where she alone and poor weak Fanny are forced to do
everything for me. — Adieu, dear friend.
TO THOMAS MICKLETHWAYTE.
[Undated, but that to Sir John is of 10th January, 1713.]
DEAR COUSIN, — You read what I say to you in Sir John's
above. Now will be the time for you to show me how far you
love me, as you have professed in prosecuting what you yourself
have begun on the foundation of Char ks, &c.
I hope I may soon by the post receive from you the return
of the models of the title-pages and, perhaps, the first sheet of
the " Judgment of Hercules," if you have resolution enough to
print at least the NOTION by itself, to which singly (as I wrote
you) the advertisement I first sent (in mine of December 27)
may serve as a preface, leaving out only the last words, viz.,
in the letter which is here prefixed.
Meanwhile, let me warn you that as for packets, which are
a little bulky, and which I am concerned, therefore, should come
Letters. 533
safe, it is best to send them to old Ben,1 to go by the particular
way, which is more safe but not so speedy a one. And at the
same time I desire that you would, by Sir John or my sister
Nanny, give me notice of such a packet coming to me by the
same post, else I may not be able to get it so as to make answer
by the next return. — Dear cousin, adieu.
TO JOHN WHEELOCK.2
NAPLES, the 10th January, 1713.
WHEELOCK, — I thought not ever to have been able to so
much as to dictate more to you, nor am I now well able. The first
days of winter weather (though but five or six in all, and those
mild in respect of other climates) brought my cough and asthma
to that degree in my worn body that at length it has opened the
sluices and become dropsical, my feet and legs swelling upwards,
and now above my knees and in other parts of my body, so that
my state, indeed, is desperate, and my pains inexpressible.
My comfort in what I leave behind me depends chiefly on
your fidelity and the affection I know you have for me and
family. My spouse will depend on your advice and counsel in all
things. She knows my friendship for you, and that the only
reproach I ever had to make you has been your not knowing
and trusting sufficiently to that friendship. I now bid you
farewell, and will here only say to you that, setting aside your
services to me and family and my regard for you on that
account, I have all along had for you the most sincere affection
of a friend, thinking you one of the honestest of men, and the
most cordially sympathising with me in the love of honesty,
liberty, our country, and mankind.
This (Wheelock !) I hope you will at length believe, and
never think hereafter that I mistrusted you, when I have all
along so truly and affectionately loved and confided in you.
1 will not boast of what a woman I have had from
Providence (or have myself made me) of a wife, but I believe
1 Benjamin Furly, in Rotterdam.
2 This is the last letter dictated by Shaf tesbury to be found among
his MSS. The long contest with disease approaches its end.
534 Letters.
you will say hereafter that for a family (since God has blessed
me with a son) I have not chosen or done ill. My other friends
I think I may boast of. Sir John is no common one. They
will be powerful and considerable, as they are affectionate,
though only for the CAUSE'S sake. But it is on you, you
(Wheelock !) that I depend both for counsel and service, advice
and assistance, in all affairs both for my wife, my son and
family, as in my will I have recommended in the strongest
manner I was able. Again farewell. Continue to write on
to me to the last with diligence.
Date your letters; that which I received before your last
(which was the fifth of November) had no date besides St. Giles's,
the 1712. You say in yours of no date: "I will return
200 pound before the 25th instant to Sir Henry, to be sent to
Leghorn for your lordship, and desire to have your lordship's
commands in time enough for what more you want. This
is a double way of returning money, as I apprehend. It was
my desire indeed at first to have it by bills, but I thought we
were at last agreed that as to Sir Henry Furness's channel,
it should only be by giving my receipt here and your paying
in there (always beforehand by some hundred pounds), and so
settling matters by way of account, remembering how the
exchange ran at the time of the payments and receipts. I
entreat you to explain this and inform yourself and me exactly
of these exchanges and money affairs between us, for it gives
me great trouble.
I doubt not but as to expense to keep myself within the
bounds I have lately written you several times. Since what
Bryan wrote you of the state of my affairs (which was the
latter end of September or the beginning of October last)
I have taken up by receipt eleven hundred ducats. I shall
advertise you still as I go on receiving, that you may keep
touch and be beforehand.
You will hear, I hope, from Bryan on the road. Pray God
he gets time enough to his day appointed him.
Kind love to friends and family. So God be with you.
P.S. — Pray (Wheelock !) be so kind as to read this over
more than once, for my sake. I have heard nothing of John
Howard since your last.
Letters. 535
MR. CRELL TO JOHN WHEELOCK.
NAPLES, the 2lst of February, 1713.
SIR, — I wished my Lady Shaftesbury's affectionate and
exemplary attendance on the care of so important a life as my
lord's was might have been at present rewarded with success,
but it seems there was no effort in art or nature of force enough
to preserve so valuable a life and retain a while a soul of the
first magnitude, so that it was no other sickness than a perfect
decay of body occasioned by so many complicate distempers
which carried at last his lordship very easily (as he desired) the
15th of this month, at ten o'clock in the morning, in my lady's
and Mrs. Frances's presence.
I notified it immediately to the Viceroy, &c., all regretting
the loss of such a lord. His body is embalmed and ready to go
by sea. There is Captain Martin, of the Rebecca galley. He
carries my lord's body and all our goods to Pool, where you will
be pleased to receive it.
I send you his lord's papers, last orders, two memorandums
according to their dates, so that we shall not stay here a day
longer than is absolutely necessary, and consequently I write
to Messrs. Furly and Wilkinson about stopping our letters.
I will not write now about my lord's particular esteem he
expressed until the very last moment of his life for your personal
merit, but I must needs tell you how much I am sensible that,
since my first coming to England, all my recreations from the
studies were either in your good company or procured by your
obliging care. So that if you will be pleased to continue, after
my lord's death, the very same friendship, I shall conclude you
reckon me, as I am, with the utmost sincerity and respect, your
most obedient and obliged humble servant, CRELL.
WILLIAM BYLF.S AND SONS, PRINTERS,
129 FLEET STREET, LONDON,
AND BRADFORD.
^haftesbury, A. A. C.
The life, unpublished letters,
and philosophical regimen of
B
1385
A3*
R3
Anthony, earl of Shaptesbury.
Live Music
Archive
Librivox
Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland
Museum of Art
Internet
Arcade
Console Living Room
Open Library
American
Libraries
TV News
Understanding
9/11